


In Sheep’s Clothing

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Detectives, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Shapeshifting, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:21:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Mikkel Densen isn’t new to being a detective, but he is new to this city and its half-wild slum, the Warren. A human teen’s disappearance becomes the least of his worries when the threads holding his life together start to unravel. He’s not sure who he can trust anymore . . . except Arthur Kirkland, a lycan who knows just how dangerous it is to be a lone wolf.
Relationships: Denmark/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 102
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

There was always work to be done in the Warren.

Mostly, if you asked Arthur, because no one could be bothered to do it. It was a tangled cuss of a place, streets all snarled up with each other, dead-end alleys full of rotting refuse, battered houses shoved to their knees by black-eyed tenements. It was a place no one would ever choose to come back to and one no one could leave. It was a tourist trap only in the sense that every step a newcomer took from the brighter, cleaner, _human_ parts of the city felt like it might be their last. Perhaps by design; the street signs were covered in spray paint, the street lights had been smashed, and the streets themselves buckled as if great beasts were slowly stirring beneath.

The locals with cars—a surprising majority, but less so when you considered that most of the vehicles were secondhand or illegally obtained or both—tended to swerve around the bumps and rifts in the asphalt as best they could. Some of the holes were enough to chew a tire, or at least squeeze off a rim. Probably someone had gotten the bright idea to write to a politician about it. In Arthur’s experience, that only guaranteed inaction. Bureaucrats were just well-dressed nails in a shabby coffin.

The ass-end of his car gave a disconcertingly loud crash as he barreled straight through the carnage of Eleventh. The speakers were already cranked, but he spun the dial more anyway. Normally rock loud enough to liquefy his bones would improve his mood, but not tonight. He glanced at the clock. 1:15. Not this morning, then. Not with work left to be done, not when he had a feeling it wouldn’t be sunshine and rainbows.

Those were hard to come by in the Warren.

Once parked, he turned off his car but left the stereo on, eyeing the building. The headlights only illuminated the first two storeys; six or seven more stretched up into the darkness beyond. One of those low-income housing developments they’d built a decade ago, before the charity funding ran out. Arthur rolled down his window and flicked ash off his cigarette. He wondered, as always, if he would have ended up in a place like this if he hadn’t forced himself into the LCO. Then where would the money come from? Welfare? Drugs?

No. This was bad, but it wasn’t _that_ bad. He could still look his brothers in the eye. Probably.

In the hopes of self-preservation, the battery shut off the stereo and lights. Shadows engulfed Arthur, but silence was too rare a gift to be gotten that easily. More music was playing, muffled by the walls of the building and a bit by the car. Bastardized electronica, too slow to be erratic and too fast to be hypnotic, peppered with sultry Spanish, focus-group sweet nothings.

Arthur was too disgusted for a final drag. He hauled himself from the driver seat and ground the cigarette beneath his boot. They were running low on tread already—from nowhere he remembered the day he bought them, Liam’s amusement and Scott’s scorn. _You’re going to muck stalls in combat boots, are you?_ As it turned out, no.

This tenement was arranged like a motel: rows of rooms stacked on top of one another, only accessible by the outside door. Arthur climbed two sets of stairs with a hand hovered over the rusty railing; he wasn’t interested in getting tetanus, but he wanted something to grab if this whole thing collapsed under him.

The door had the number and a fair amount of paint scraped off, but there was no mistaking it. He could feel the music vibrating through his boots. He couldn’t believe the rest of the tenants put up with this . . . but then again, at this hour, it was likely most if not all of them were gone. Arthur was working right now, after all. Maybe it wasn’t so strange.

It was also true, though, that monsters came out at night.

Arthur pounded the side of his fist into the door. By the time he’d been to a day full of places, his knuckles smarted from all the knocking. This was the last of them. Tomorrow was a day off, the first in almost two weeks; they were reaching the end of a registration period. He would feel better about that once he didn’t have to listen to this godforsaken Ibizan dubstep anymore.

The doors didn’t have peepholes, but Arthur doubted there was any uncertainty as to who was calling. No one came knocking at this hour, except him. Worse things to be known for, and several applied to him too.

“I know you’re in there,” he said, raising his voice. He didn’t care for shouting. If he was going to the trouble of being loud, he might as well just let his body do the talking. He preferred his throat to burn from alcoholic activities.

No answer came.

Arthur kicked the door in.

Difficult to say if he or the latch had influenced the outcome more, but he’d definitely been the victor. The door swung in and banged against the adjacent wall. Somewhere, something glass fell and shattered. Arthur saw smoke curling up to the ceiling before the breeze tugged it outside. Everything was tinted red; he hadn’t thought to wonder if there might be something intimate in progress. Perhaps this was going to be more interesting than he thought.

The music cut off mid-lyric. Movement from the bed: Arthur realized the lump of pillows and blankets was actually mostly made up of a man. He rose from the mattress and reached to flick on the light switch. Ungodly fluorescent light turned the place into an alien art installation. Black mold, or just a shadow? Were the cabinet handles painted on? Even the red-shaded lamp looked fake with this other light source dominating it. This was the set of a commercial for the cheapest apartment in the world, and here was the Not a Paid Actor.

“What,” said Antonio, “the fuck?”

Arthur felt his mood darkening by the second. Perhaps it was Antonio standing there shirtless, a joint still burning on the ashtray by the bed. Yes, actually, there was a very good chance this was the culprit, but Arthur wasn’t sure which particular facet was most to blame. The trail of hair disappearing beneath his low-slung trousers? The stark lines of bone and muscle that made his body? The even bronze of his skin, as if he’d never heard of sunburn? Or just the fact of his neck, bare skin all the way around, from jaw to collarbone. Pristine as fresh-fallen snow.

 _Fuck you._ That wasn’t really fair, but working overtime had a way of eroding Arthur’s morals.

“You’ve been given warnings,” Arthur told him wearily. “Three of them. If you can’t pay your registration, then you’re out. And you didn’t pay in the time we gave you. So now you’re out.”

Antonio scoffed. He looked so easily charming with his curls and crooked nose; it was quite a thing to see his anger remove him from that. “That is so fucked up. Of course I can’t afford it. I’ve been on unemployment, and that only gives me enough for rent and food. How the fuck am I supposed to afford tags, too?”

Arthur was tired enough he could feel his eyes glazing over. His job description said something about _compassion_ but he didn’t think that meant serving as a therapist/accountant. “I don’t know what to tell you, mate,” he said. “Maybe if you saved your money instead of spending it on weed—”

“Shut up,” Antonio snapped, a snarl edging his words. “You don’t know anything about me, so don’t tell me how to live my life. You don’t know anything about any of us. You think you do, but you don’t.”

“I knew where to find you,” Arthur pointed out, even though this felt like arguing with a five-year-old. He should’ve just made someone else take this one. He would be the first to admit things were most likely to get sloppy when he got tired. He was scraping the bottom of his patience barrel just standing here. _Come quietly, please. I’ve had three hours of sleep. Can’t you just—_

“The Bloodhound sniffed me out,” Antonio said in a nasal mimicry of Arthur’s accent. “Whatever will I do.”

Arthur could see the veins standing out on his neck, his shoulders. He sighed. Sloppy was evidently on the menu whether he ordered it or not.

“Last chance,” he said, and offered half-heartedly, “I’ll keep quiet about the drugs.”

Antonio didn’t say anything, because he was too busy jerking, jolting, twisting, shifting. It looked slightly different for everyone, but in general it was this: a tidy all-over crunch of rearranged bone structure and a vast crop of sprouting fur. Blink-and-miss-it, in truth, but while watching it always seemed slower, more painful than it truly was in the moment. Then Antonio was a four-foot wolf jackrabbiting out of his trousers and baring his yellowed teeth at Arthur. The enemy.

From his pocket, Arthur removed his butterfly knife. He flicked out the blade and showed it to Antonio. Even in this shitty lighting, the silver sparkled.

The wolf’s nostrils flared. A growl rumbled in his throat, and his muscles tensed to spring.

“And thus,” Arthur told him, “you were warned.”

Antonio lunged at him.

Arthur dove out of the way and skidded into the folding chairs pushed up to the table. Everything was shoulder-to-shoulder in this place, and that did nothing but fuel his frustration. He kicked one of the chairs; the sound of it bouncing off the cupboards wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he wanted.

“This place is a tragedy, mate,” he remarked. “I’d be getting high, too.”

By way of response, Antonio leapt at him again. Arthur grabbed the other chair and held it over himself as the wolf knocked him to the floor and snap, snap, snapped his jaws against the metal frame. _Definition of insanity,_ Arthur thought, and scowled when he felt drool slip through the plastic tubing of the chair and onto his throat. Shifting was not unlike being drunk: it blurred the lines between thinking and feeling, melded the minor and major parts of a personality together until you became an exaggeration of yourself. It was honest, in that sense. A wolf wouldn’t pretend to like someone or linger through painful small talk in the grocery store. They were refreshing, if you were in the right frame of mind. Arthur was not.

He jammed the blade of his knife into Antonio’s flank, right below his ribs. The wolf staggered back with a high wail, a sound that would have pierced guilt through his heart had he heard it a year ago. Arthur shoved the chair away, stood up, and wiped the slobber off his neck. “Are we done yet?”

Antonio had been licking tentatively at his wound, but at the movement from Arthur his growl started back up again. He eyed him suspiciously and slunk toward the bed, head down, tail low, ears and gaze trained on Arthur.

“For God’s sake,” Arthur said, but it was no good bitching about it. If Antonio was going to make him do this, then he was just wasting his own time hesitating. It would be a mark on his record that he was being uncooperative. Antonio was digging his own grave, and Arthur was in a bad enough mood to grab a shovel.

“Come on then,” he said, striding forward with the momentum he’d been taught. _Walk like you believe you’re in charge, or no one else will._ He really needed to sleep or get drunk or drink himself to sleep if he was remembering things like that. “Let’s see what you’ve got, fuck-arse.”

Just as Arthur invaded his space, Antonio was up, clamping his jaws shut on Arthur’s knife arm. He was so tired he’d forgotten what sharp pain felt like; it was almost a nice respite from the aches in his hands. _Ah well._ He wound up and punched the wolf in the face, right where his snout met his skull. Antonio’s hold released. Arthur gave his knuckles just a second to curse at him before he swung his knife again, carving a curled smile into Antonio’s shoulder. That cut was more wicked than the first; blood poured down his leg in earnest, darkening the chocolate fur.

The wolf paused.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

Whatever instinctive calculations went through his mind added up to Antonio once again jumping at Arthur. He wasn’t tense and alert anymore, though; he hit Arthur with the full brunt of his weight and the pair of them fell back against the bed, snapping and swiping almost in slow motion as their energy flagged. Arthur wasn’t unimpressed with Antonio’s ambition to be the winner, but it was really time to pack this in. Antonio snagged his teeth clumsily around Arthur’s shoulder—karma, perhaps—and Arthur used the position to his advantage, wedging the blade in between and pressing the flat of it against Antonio’s tongue.

The wolf fell back, retching rather melodramatically in Arthur’s opinion. He let the knife drop onto the mattress and grabbed Antonio’s jaws, forcing them shut with one hand. Antonio wrenched away but not quite free of Arthur’s grasp, and he felt the very last drop of patience evaporate in the barrel. He bared his teeth at the wolf and glared into his eyes. He felt his voice as a solid thing; there wasn’t quite room for the snarl in such a human throat.

_“Stop. Fucking. With. Me.”_

Antonio’s green eyes widened and, with that, it was over. His ears drooped shyly. A repentant whimper was all he had to say for himself. He lowered his body down as Arthur pulled the collapsible muzzle from his back pocket and strapped it around his head. Finally, Arthur let his back lean against the side of the mattress and slid to the floor. The room was already a ruin when he got here, but it was more of one now with the broken door and the half-destroyed chair and the bed pushed several inches from its original resting place.

Arthur reached back to retrieve his knife and wiped the blood off on his thigh. His ripped jeans were slightly more ripped, after today. He hadn’t felt all those cuts on his hands when they were bestowed, but he was feeling them now.

His phone hummed like a heartbeat in his jacket. He took it out.

“Trouble?” Ivan asked. Bastard never sounded tired. Probably he never slept. He always worked night shifts, hoping for shit to go down the way it just had. Arthur had little patience for types like that, the ones who loved the bloodshed and gossip of mayhem but only when it was other people getting their hands dirty.

“Yeah.” Arthur reached into the other side of his jacket, then remembered he’d smoked his last cigarette on the drive over. He glanced up at the joint on the ashtray. Very few things complimented the smell of weed, and blood wasn’t one of them. “Bring the van.”

“Twenty minutes.”

Whatever. Arthur hung up and took a long drag. Antonio watched him do it with puppy dog eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Arthur let his head tip back so he could only see the watermarked ceiling instead. “To the victor go the spoils.”

Arthur had relocated back to his car by the time Ivan arrived. He’d shut Antonio’s door as best he could and bullied the wolf down the stairs, to the patch of gravel he crouched on now. Arthur sat with his door open, feet on the ground—partly because the night was stuffy and his car’s AC was broken, and partly in case Antonio got any exciting ideas and he had to chase after him. At that point he would’ve been happier to just run him over, but then there’d be paperwork.

Antonio stood up when the van pulled in beside him but at Arthur’s pointed look remained where he was. He kept favoring the leg that Arthur had cut, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Contrary to old wives’ tales, wounds inflicted by silver _could_ be healed, just not with the rapid regeneration typical to those of a lycanthropic persuasion. A side effect or a bonus, depending who you asked, of the collars was they prevented speedy healing as well. Luckily, Arthur’s bites weren’t as bad as he thought, more blood than pain. Shame about the jacket, though; he’d liked this one. He supposed he could sew a patch over the holes. Then again, it didn’t exactly go against the rest of his torn aesthetic, so maybe he’d just let it fray.

The van was black, with LCO writ big across the side. Arthur couldn’t hear any music playing inside it, further proof of what a freak show Ivan was. He was stupidly tall as well, but that was a general complaint rather than a personal one.

Ivan peered down at Antonio, who lifted his lip uneasily. Ivan smiled as if this was a clever joke. “Did he give you much trouble? You’ve fought bigger.”

 _Fought. You do know our job is to protect people, right?_ Arthur kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to fuel any fantasies for whenever Ivan went home. It was strange for a human to choose the Warren, and it was rarely to the benefit of either party.

Ivan opened the back of the van and tossed in a bit of odiferous jerky. Antonio perked up, shot one last look at Arthur, then clambered inside. Ivan shut the doors in his wake. If Antonio yelped within, from fear or surprise, Arthur couldn’t hear it. Trying to eat the jerky through the thin silver bars of the muzzle would keep Antonio entertained all the way to the Halfway House.

“Cooperative,” Ivan noted.

Arthur didn’t have the energy to scoff.

“Well,” Ivan said when it became apparent how many sides the conversation had, “good work again, Bloodhound. As always. Do you suppose they’ll give you a raise for this period?”

“Fuck if I care,” Arthur said. At least, he thought he said it out loud. How many times had he told Ivan to just call him Kirkland? Beyond counting. It seemed impossible to come by a nickname of your own volition. He’d never been comfortable wearing other people’s expectations; they tended to chafe.

“Mm.” Ivan had just started to turn away when his eyes got that familiar, loathsome spark. An angle had been found. “Oh. Your tags are showing. I’ve never seen them before.”

Arthur felt something like a blush on his cheeks, and he prayed there wasn’t enough light to reveal it to Ivan. He tugged the front of his shirt away from his chest to let the tags fall inside. A lot of wolves wore them outside their clothes because they couldn’t stand the irritation of the silver, but to Arthur the only thing worse than dealing with the itch was having to listen to the fucking jangle.

“Why do you hide them?” Ivan asked, back to amusement again. “It’s not because of me, is it?”

Arthur leant the back of his skull against the headrest. “The day I dress a certain way for you, Braginski, is the day you throw me in the back of that fucking van.”

Ivan smiled. Arthur cleared his teeth in something roughly smile-shaped.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ivan said, which meant he’d take the loss for now. Always playing the long-game, this one. “Enjoy your day off, Hound.”

Arthur didn’t linger any longer. He spun the dial until he couldn’t tell his own heartbeat from the bass and tore away from the tenement fast enough that the tires squealed. _I was here._ Arthur Kirkland. Bloodhound. Lycan Control Officer. Voluntary orphan. Monster?

A pair of prostitutes with tags bouncing off their cleavage gave him the finger when he ran a stop sign. He didn’t spare a thought for them. Whatever mercy he’d had left was slowly drying into an incriminating stain on the floor of Antonio’s apartment. He glanced at the clock again. 2:21.

He had ten minutes to catch the liquor store . . . but then again, they were probably expecting him.

He didn’t turn on any lights when he got home. His flat was loathsome, but at least it wasn’t a pit like Antonio’s. It definitely had its quirks. The deadbolt only occasionally allowed itself to be locked, not that anyone would bother breaking in. The carpet smelled suspiciously of cats, for a pet-free building. And the light switch in the kitchen was on backward. _No, it’s actually just that the rest of the place is upside-down,_ the property manager had said when she showed Arthur the listing, and then laughed as if that was the joke out of all this.

Whatever. It was nearly in the center of the Warren, which was what he wanted. A spider in his web.

He’d started drinking in the car, just to get a head start, so he had to be careful not to slosh anything when he walked into the back of the couch. If he had lupine eyes, he’d be able to see. _Look, love. Do you see them?_ Arthur stopped, a hand braced against the wall. He should’ve turned the light on, even though it would make the incoming headache worse. He had no baseline of reality to look at, to keep him from seeing the memory: his little fingers on the windowsill, wiping away the fog of his breath, the winter wonderland below, like gazing into a snow globe, the moonlight reflecting all the glorious white, and there on the treeline were the wolves. Half a dozen of them, only visible as shadows and gusts of snow-powder breath and their eyes, glinting yellow-green in the dark. _We can do so much more than people think._

Apparently there was no escape from the voices in his head tonight.

He put the bottle to his lips again, but he couldn’t even taste it through his homesickness. He took his phone from his jacket, squinting at the sudden glare, and called his voicemail.

_You have two heard messages. Press—_

Arthur thumbed the button and tossed his phone onto the scratched coffee table, then let himself drop onto the couch. His legs hung over the arm. He saw Ivan sneering in his head and swallowed some more until that image didn’t burn so much in comparison.

_“Hi, Arthur. It’s Marianne. I know you think you can do this alone, and you might be right, but have you ever thought that we might still need you? There are lots of petitions that could use your signature, you know. It would add weight. And you have lots of connections in the Warren, I know. We hear about you all the time, from people. Usually good stuff. You’d be surprised. I’m just saying . . . I don’t know. I guess I’m just saying we wish you’d come back. So, call me sometime. Please. Bye.”_

Arthur slung his free arm over his eyes. Collectively, he hurt.

_“Are you ever going to answer me? Is this how Mum taught you to handle your problems? Avoiding them? You can’t run away from your pack forever. Pick up your fucking phone. Or drive here and face me. All we ever did was love you, and this is how you—Look, just call me. Don’t be such a bloody coward.”_

He heaved a sigh. Always a way with words.

_End of heard messages. If you wish to save—_

He sighed again and reached out to fumble up his phone.

_Your messages will be saved for thirty days._

“It’s been a lot longer than that.”

Arthur looked up. The only sources of light were the dim clock on the oven and the moon sneaking in between the cracks of the blinds, but that didn’t matter much. Hallucinations didn’t require mood lighting. In the senseless, automatic manner of a dream, Arthur knew Alfred was sitting on the edge of the cluttered coffee table with his hands in his pockets.

“Can you not see,” Arthur said, mostly not slurred, “I am trying to suffer in peace?”

Alfred considered him. “You have blood on your hands.”

“It’s not mine.” Then Arthur pointed at him. His knuckle ached dully. “Oh, I see what you did there, that’s very good. Go fuck yourself.”

Alfred’s smile was sympathetic, but not genuine. “That won’t help, Arthur.”

“I know.” Just like that, all of the fight had gone out of him. He sank deeper into the couch. “I’m so tired.”

“I know,” Alfred echoed. “But it’s your fault.”

Arthur couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He became suddenly aware he was passing out, and he wondered if the alcohol had pushed his fatigue over the edge or if they’d joined hands and jumped together.

“Do me a favor,” Arthur said, or maybe he just thought it. He couldn’t really feel his mouth moving. “Leave me alone.”

Alfred’s face looked like he was about to laugh, but he didn’t. “You always were a rude drunk.”

 _Liar._ He could remember . . . actually, no, he couldn’t, because thoughts weren’t working anymore, and neither were memories, at long last. Arthur knew when he closed his eyes: the blackness was complete in a way nothing else was. A perfect little oblivion to lose himself in for a handful of hours.

Finally, there was quiet.


	2. Chapter 2

At eight a.m., it was twelve degrees outside and twenty-one degrees inside the station. Mikkel hated these in-between days, when the weather didn’t know if it was summer or fall and he felt too hot with his suit coat but too cold without it.

Not that he would go without, if he could help it. It hadn’t taken long for him to feel naked without his tie and jacket. Even at home, he felt vaguely slobbish when he wasn’t in the unofficial uniform. Let no one say clothes were only material.

He smoothed his tie down as he sat across from Berwald Oxenstierna, chief of police and professional black coffee drinker. His office had its own machine—some said it was because he was too self-important to join the other officers in the break room, which Mikkel doubted, and others said it was because he had no time to leave his office, which Mikkel thought might be the truth—and it made the place smell deeply of coffee beans. Mikkel rather liked it, though it had an embarrassing and inexplicable habit of making his stomach growl. He stopped skipping breakfast and considered the issue side-stepped.

“Representative Vargas came here this morning,” said Berwald, as if it was no longer before noon, “to report his eldest son missing.” He slid the file across his desk. “I think you should take it.”

One day he would sit at a desk polished smooth as butter, empty but for a gilded label engraved with his name and a spotless high-end computer and a perfect framed photograph of his family. _One day,_ he thought fiercely, _one day._

Mikkel let the file fall open in his hands. Apparently Berwald himself had been the one to take Vargas’s statement, which was a rarity—though, given Vargas’s position in the city, it seemed appropriate. The upshot: Lovino, seventeen, had been expected to come home last night by midnight at the latest and he had not. He left no note and was not answering any texts or calls; attempts to find his phone were unsuccessful. None of his friends— _known friends,_ Mikkel noted—had any knowledge of his whereabouts. His younger brother claimed to be just as ignorant, as did the butler, maid, cook, and security guard.

“Did he think it could be a kidnapping?” Mikkel asked. That seemed the simplest conclusion.

Berwald regarded him levelly behind his glasses. “He didn’t believe his son would run away.”

“Hmm.” The thoughtful hum seemed safe. He was reluctant to say anything that might betray uncertainty, because he’d worked in this precinct almost a year and not once had he ever seen the chief question himself. This, he felt sure, was what his teachers had been looking for when they asked him about role models and then stared abjectly when he came up blank.

Berwald was watching him. His silence said _If you don’t think you’re up to it, I can give it to another detective._

Mikkel stood. “I’ll get on it right away. Thank you, sir.”

Something almost like irony always passed over Berwald’s face whenever he called him _sir_ , but it happened so fast and Berwald’s face was so inexpressive Mikkel thought he was imagining it a second later. Berwald only nodded in approval or farewell, and so Mikkel returned it and strode out with purpose. 

First priority: the Vargas estate. If no leads were found there, second priority: Lovino’s ex-boyfriend, Antonio Fernández Carriedo. _A Warren wolf?_ How did a rich kid come to be dating someone from the slums? _And how was his grandfather okay with it?_ Mikkel took out his phone, programming both addresses into his GPS. Only the Vargas mansion came up. Damned Warren, of course the app thought it didn't exist. _Well, it shouldn’t._

“Hey! Walk all over somebody, why don’t ya?”

Mikkel almost tripped over himself in his haste to step back, but he was not nearly as close to Gilbert as he’d made it sound. He snapped the file shut and locked his phone. It wouldn’t do for stray passersby to think he might be gossiping about a case or, worse, asking for help.

“You gotta look where you’re going, big guy,” Gilbert said, even though he was only a few inches shorter himself—and had a few more pounds of muscle, not that Mikkel was keeping track. “You’re a menace. Case file?”

“Missing person,” Mikkel replied. “I’m just heading out. Mosquitoes?”

“Hm? Oh.” Gilbert stopped absently scratching his arm through his sleeve. His tags had been jingling faintly with the movement, and the sudden quiet felt strangely stark. “Yeah, I think so. It’s too nice in the evenings to stay inside.”

Mikkel didn’t argue that point, because there had been a large portion of his life wherein he preferred the out of doors to most places and also because this seemed like it could be classified as a Wolf Thing, which was a broad topic he preferred to steer around whenever possible.

“They brought donuts while you were talking to the Ox,” Gilbert told him. “I’ll save you one of those honey twist things, if you want.”

Mikkel gave a light smile. The protein shake he’d had for breakfast felt like centuries ago already. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. Carbs.”

Gilbert shook his head. “Fuel for gains, Densen. You’re playing the game all wrong.” He flexed his arms below and above his head, to demonstrate. His police uniform bulged agreeably. “Exhibit A. Exhibit B. This is what you get when you feed the beast. Are you taking notes, Detective?”

“So many notes,” Mikkel agreed, turning to walk backward. “Diary entries. Love letters . . .”

Gilbert crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. “Oh yeah? I hope today’s diary entry says _Dear Diary, today I crushed an innocent secretary_ —”

Mikkel whirled. The secretary in question was four feet away and walking down the other side of the hallway; she’d clearly been paying more attention than he had. She had also been working here long enough to be used to their bullshit, so she just gave them an indifferent glance before adjusting her grip on a stack of copies and trudging on. Only Gilbert Morning Person Beilschmidt liked to be in before nine.

“I think you are the menace, actually,” Mikkel remarked, glancing over his shoulder.

Gilbert’s smirk had widened to a grin, but now it smoothed into a softer sort of smile. “Good luck, Mick.”

Mikkel returned the smile. A year ago, he’d walked into this station and known no one, just the name of the chief. He’d gotten in early, well before roll-call, and had been exploring the halls when an officer rounded the corner and nearly scared him out of his skin.

_Ha, I know, hell of a wake-up call. Imagine looking at this in the mirror every morning. Stronger than caffeine. You’re the new transfer, right? Densen? Beilschmidt. Does your hair always do that, or is it just standing up ’cause you’re spooked?_

Gilbert had befriended him in ten minutes flat, and Mikkel only felt weird about it for the rest of the day. _Look,_ he thought now to his parents. _He’s still my friend. It doesn’t matter what he looks like or what he could turn into. Wolves can be good people._

Still, he made sure the gun in his car was loaded with silver jackets. You could never be too careful in the Warren.

It only took six miles for the Warren to completely turn Mikkel around.

He’d gotten nothing at all from the Vargas mansion. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting; in a huge house kept spick and span by multiple staff members, evidence was pretty hard to come by. He had plucked some hair from Lovino’s brush—one of the creepier things he’d done in this line of work, which was probably a good sign in retrospect—just in case he needed to make a comparison later, but he’d still felt useless as he wandered around a house the size of a football stadium and asked everyone in sight _Is there anything else you can think of to tell me?_

He thought, too, that the mansion itself had put him off. It reminded him too much of his grandparents’ place, the one his parents were lording in now. Lovino had a massive bedroom, en suite, walk-in closet, two shiny cars in the cavernous garage. Did he and Feliciano hiss to each other about the Will, cover up their dirtier secrets to stay in good graces with their grandfather? And what of their parents? One dead and one long gone, so the maid had told Mikkel. _Gone,_ he wondered, _or cut out?_ He made note of it regardless, and wondered briefly if a parent might return, snatch up a child. But one so old? Perhaps Lovino was being held for ransom, and the message had not yet arrived. If that was true, Mikkel was on an even faster ticking clock.

He pushed his bristling morals to the back of his mind and, holding on the brake at an empty intersection, consulted the virtual map on his phone for the tenth time. The rest of the city was laid out as a sensible grid, but this place was just a nightmare. Some of the streets were two-way when the GPS claimed them to be one. Some of the streets didn’t exist on the GPS at all. On more than one occasion it told him to _turn right_ and if he’d listened he would have driven straight into a wall. And the depressing part was these places were so run-down he doubted his car would have much trouble bashing its way through.

_Tap-tap-tap._

Mikkel glanced up. A girl—no, a woman dressed as a girl—was tapping her finger against the window. Mikkel stifled a wince at the mark she was leaving on the glass and rolled it down before it could get worse. “Good morning. Is there something I can do for you?”

She crossed her arms on his door and smiled at him. He could see straight down her shirt, which meant he could also see the tags hanging from her collar. He felt a little odd about the sheer lack of attraction he had to the display. It was just because she was a woman, though; it didn’t have anything to do with her being a wolf. That would be absurd.

The she-wolf arched a pierced eyebrow. “Is there something _I_ can do for _you_?”

Ah. He hadn’t realized this was a possibility in broad daylight, but then again time wasn’t really a factor in the Warren. _They’re wolves, why would they care what time of day it is?_ He shifted his shoulders a little. “Well . . .” He held up his badge and startled when she turned and walked away without another word. “Hey! Come back here for a second.”

“I didn’t say a fucking word to you,” she snapped. He could see faint, yellow bruising on the backs of her thighs.

 _Don’t get involved._ He could report it when he got back to the station. Gilbert was the one who had distant dreams of purging evil from the Warren. Mikkel had his own case, and his own problems, to worry about. “I don’t have anything on you, I know. That’s not what I want. I’m just looking for a wolf called Antonio. Do you know him?”

She stopped. Slowly, she turned around, arms crossed over her chest. “Toni.”

“Toni,” Mikkel agreed warmly, with a smile for extra credit. He’d paid for the straight teeth, so he might as well put them to good use. “Could you point me in his direction?”

She scowled, but it was difficult to say if this was for Mikkel or for Antonio. “Bloodhound took him to the pound last night, that’s what I heard.”

The pound, the kennel, the zoo: all scornful street names for the Silver Linings Halfway House. It wasn’t strictly illegal for a wolf to appear in public without up-to-date tags, in the sense that it wasn’t something you got arrested for. Instead, Lycan Control Officers—the Bloodhound being a particularly prolific one—wrangled uncollared wolves and brought them to _the pound_ , where they wouldn’t have the opportunity to accidentally harm anyone. It was a controversial system.

Mikkel didn’t care about that.

This case had just given him a reason to go see Lukas, and that meant things were looking up.

“Thank you,” he told the she-wolf brightly. She frowned at him.

He rolled his window back up so no more conditioned air would escape and, after looking left-right-left, pulled away from the stop sign. He didn’t have to put in the address of Silver Linings. After all this time, he could’ve found his way there blindfolded. _If at first you don’t succeed . . ._ He’d had his eye on the Halfway House’s pretty doctor for eight months.

And his mother said he had no patience.

The compound had five buildings altogether arranged in a pentagon round a central courtyard. Government funding kept the grass mowed neat as a golf green and the buildings—big utilitarian boxes, aside from the smaller administration office where influential individuals occasionally gathered to critique how their money was being spent—spick and span, within and without. It sort of looked like a low-end college, until you saw the chain-link fence on all sides and noted the silver-coated barbed wire swirled along the top. It mostly looked like a prison, after that, but at least there were no bars on the windows.

Mikkel paused to show his ID to the gateman, then parked in the visitors lot. It was a third of the size of the staff lot. He wondered, as he walked up to the admin office, why that was the case. Weren’t wolves lauded as social creatures, even more so than humans? Didn’t they care about one another enough to stop in when their friends were down on their luck? Of course, all of the wolves living in these bland dormitories came from the Warren. It was hard to make friends in a trustless place like that.

He wouldn’t have to worry about anyone opening a door into his car, at least.

In he went. Everything seemed dimmer after the morning sunlight had done its insistent work on his eyes. This place always reminded him of a hotel, all conveniently placed floor mats that never seemed to get dirty and hanging baskets of plants that looked quite alive but not quite real. He stepped up to the front desk.

Both secretaries, behind their wall of glass, glanced up at him. One trailed his eyes down Mikkel’s body in a manner so blatant it almost didn’t feel like a compliment, and the other just said, “Dr. Bondevik is in his office.”

Mikkel smiled his thanks and left the way he’d come. The Halfway House had started out as just a singular building, and it was this one he walked into now. It had turned out to be a bit too ambitious, or perhaps short-sighted—thinking the number of people who could not afford registration would remain the same even as the price rose each year—and so four more residence buildings had been constructed. Mikkel wondered how many would be added before something drastic happened. Taxpayers were unhappy enough already . . .

The medical centre was in the basement. Mikkel took the stairs, and wondered halfway down if the elevator would have been quicker. Only by seconds, but maybe those seconds mattered more than he realized. What if right now Lovino Vargas was in grave danger, and he should have just asked the secretaries for a list of last night’s admitted wolves instead, and he’d already made the mistake that would make him lose—?

He pulled that line of thought up short. That was the sort of doomsday thinking that destroyed people, he knew firsthand, but he still felt guilt chewing at him as he stepped into Lukas’s open doorway. 

“Detective Densen.” Lukas glanced over at him from where he stood stocking shelves with gloves and gauze. He wasn’t in a lab coat, so Mikkel could see just how well his slacks fit. “You look bothered.”

“Do I?” He smiled wide enough to dimple. “How about now?”

Lukas just raised an eyebrow. Charm had never worked on him. “Is this another social call?”

“No, it’s business,” Mikkel said, dropping the smile. “I’m here for a wolf, Antonio—”

“Fernández Carriedo? He’s not here. You just missed him. He was released an hour ago.”

 _Damn it._ Of course, the one time a wolf could actually pay his way, it was the one Mikkel would have preferred to have in a cage. “Do you know who brought him in?”

“Obviously. Everything is recorded.” Lukas turned to face him at last. Oh, those frigid eyes. “It was Officer Braginski. But Officer Kirkland detained him.”

 _Bloodhound._ “Okay. Thank you for the help.” His feet didn’t want to take him out of this room, but he forced them. He just couldn’t tell where Lukas existed on the spectrum between _hard to get_ and _impossible to achieve._ Lukas had never said anything outright to him, but maybe he wasn’t the type to do that. Maybe Mikkel was supposed to know what those intense stares and pointed eyebrow quirks meant. He was just so goddamned elegant; it was a language Mikkel had never spoken but that entranced him all the more for it.

He had to glance back. Lukas had just given him one of his usual nods and was now folding up the cardboard box he’d emptied onto the shelves. Even his silences were impressive. Every move was measured and sure. Mikkel was plagued with the wanting. _To be that confident. To be that quiet. To be the one he wants. To be better._

Then he pounded his way back up the stairs and jogged out to his car. His GPS would’ve rejected Arthur Kirkland’s address as well, no doubt, not that he had it anyway. But the LCO office would, and they’d be able to give him usable directions if he asked.

If it meant no more running around the Warren, he’d take the blow to his pride.

He wasn’t sure why he’d expected a nice place for someone with government employment, but Arthur Kirkland’s building was pretty standard Warren fare. Rusted eaves, bricks blackened and smeared with old graffiti, blown tires and broken bicycles and other trash abandoned all along the walls. Mikkel gave the pockmarked parking area a disapproving look and settled for leaving his car on the street. He locked it, then locked it again just to be sure. His gun was in there, but even if it wasn’t he’d have nightmares tonight of uneducated youths chucking rocks at his windshield and scraping off his paint.

The building seemed smaller from the inside. Only four flats to a floor, so they must’ve had more than a bed and bath each. Mikkel knocked on 3-C and listened for life within. Nothing. He eyed the dark marks on the carpet and one that looked suspiciously like a paw print. _Dogs?_ But he’d seen the _No Animals_ decal chipping off the glass of the entrance, and besides, what dog had a paw six inches across?

He rapped his knuckles against the door again. If there were security cameras in this wretched place, what would their spying eyes see each night?

Mikkel stifled an impatient sigh. When it was his decision how long he took, it didn’t feel so bad. Waiting impotently for someone to grace him with their presence, and in this stuffy place, was too much to bear. Lovino Vargas was missing. A ransom letter could be burning in someone’s pocket right now. Someone, perhaps Berwald, would call Mikkel if evidence like that came in, but . . . _Alright, that’s it._

He lifted his hand to really let the door know how he felt and, just as his fist was about to make contact, it opened.

“I heard you,” said the belligerent creature in the doorway, “the first fucking time.”

Mikkel let his hand drop to his side. The wolf—he could see just the silver edge of his collar peeking out over his shirt—was smaller than he expected. A lot smaller. He’d thought they had stature restrictions at the LCO. Could this guy, in his ripped skinny jeans and faded shirt for a band Mikkel hadn’t listened to since high school, really handle himself against a shifted wolf? Maybe if it was a staring contest; his bright green gaze was even more intense than Lukas’s, and that was saying something.

“Are you Arthur Kirkland?” Mikkel asked, just to be safe.

“What’s left,” Arthur replied, one unimpressed eyebrow slightly higher than the other.

Mikkel noted the faint redness of his sclera and glanced past him into the flat. The neck of an empty bottle poked out around the couch. He wondered if Arthur was just hiding his hangover, or if his lycanthropy had let him forego it entirely. He knew wolves generally had a higher alcohol tolerance than humans, but he’d never asked Gilbert the specifics of the process. Come to think of it, they’d never seen each other the morning after, never had parties, never stayed the night. Mikkel didn’t know how to invite someone to spend the night. When had his parents ever allowed something like that? And who would ever want to with _him_ back then, anyway?

“Are you here to foreclose this place?” Arthur asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning one shoulder against the door frame. “Or do you not have a good reason for waking me up on my day off?”

Mikkel couldn’t remember the last day off he’d slept away. He’d learned from Gilbert the importance of routine; if he didn’t exercise as early as possible in the morning and get it out of the way, he’d be more likely to put it off and forget about it. Abruptly, he wondered if Arthur worked out. He was a skinny thing, but there was a sturdiness to him as well. Maybe wrestling with unruly animals was enough.

“My name is Detective Densen,” Mikkel told him, flashing his badge. “I’m here on a case. You detained a wolf called Antonio last night, correct?”

Arthur’s eyebrow went a smidgen higher at the last word. “Yes, Detective, that is correct.”

Mikkel ignored the tone. “I need you to take me to his place.”

Now the wolf’s brow furrowed. “Take you? Why? It’s where Eleventh meets—”

Mikkel shook his head. He was done with getting lost. And besides: “If he’s not there, I would need a warrant to get in. But if you wanted to do follow-up on your work last night . . .”

Arthur stared at him for a few seconds, expression unchanged. Then he shook his head, but there was some amusement around his mouth. “You’re a little tryhard, aren’t you? Got your eye on the promotion?”

Mikkel was speechless. First of all, he was not a tryhard, he was doing everything in his power to make this case move forward, and if that meant taking advantage of unorthodox measures, he had no problem with that, and why should he? Second of all, how had this random wolf just guessed something he had not admitted to Gilbert and had only hinted at to Lukas, to no avail? Third of all, how did Arthur even know the goings-on of a police department? And, fourth and finally, _little_?!

“Whatever. I’ll go. Not like I had anything on today. It’ll keep me from spending more money.” Mikkel didn’t have to ask what on. “Give me a minute to get this fucking taste out of my mouth.” Mikkel was glad to hear that; he was beginning to smell Arthur’s breath. “Oh, and by the way,” Arthur added, one hand on the door. “A little professional advice. Don’t wave your badge around. Good way to get killed.”

He closed the door in Mikkel’s face.

Arthur smelled marginally better by the time he sat in the passenger seat of the car; Mikkel hoped the reek of smoke wouldn’t pervade the leather upholstery. Arthur had changed his jeans but not his shirt. He leaned his arm along the sill of the window, and Mikkel only now noticed the dried blood on his jacket. And the bite marks.

“Are those from the wolf we’re about to go see?” Mikkel asked, with a pointed glance at Arthur’s arm.

“Yep. Why do you have pop stations in your presets?” Arthur pressed some buttons on the radio and someone obediently started shouting at guitars about not being in love. “There, that’s better. Now your car will respect you a bit.”

Mikkel checked, but Arthur hadn’t left any smudges. “Keep your hands to yourself,” he said, just to be safe. “And, for your information, I generally listen to music through my phone. Wirelessly.”

 _“Fancy,”_ Arthur indulged breathlessly. “Wow. Mm. So what do you listen to, then? Progg?”

“I’m not Swedish,” Mikkel retorted, then made a note to train that hint of contempt out of his voice just in case he got into a Scandinavian conversation with Berwald. Arthur had an eyebrow raised at him again, so he relented: “I’m Danish.”

“Oh, well, forgive me, Odinson,” Arthur said. “What music do Danes listen to, then? You never think of it, do you, on the rare occasion you do think of them. Mostly it’s just beards and bicycles that come to mind. And little hats. Classical? Opera?”

He was definitely not hungover. And he could definitely not, under any circumstance, see how much Mikkel wanted to cringe at all his memories of his mother and her godforsaken opera. “No. Stop talking. I listen to the same music you do. I like loud, angry music. I just don’t feel like I have to dress myself in a way that shows people how loud and angry I am.”

Arthur had just enough time to follow Mikkel’s gaze to the heart-eyed skull patch sewn into his jacket. “Fuck you, it was a present. It has, whatever, sentimental value. And don’t talk to me about clothes while you’re sat there one tug of a tie away from bringing yourself off. Fucking suits.”

At a stop sign, Mikkel paused and looked over at the wolf in his passenger seat. Arthur looked back at him, eyes fierce as ever and—were those freckles on his cheeks? Freckles were for innocent children, not this gremlin. How did he talk like that? Like Gilbert, but worse. Like he didn’t care. _He’s a wolf in the Warren, why should he care?_ But Mikkel was in a position of authority, and it had no effect on this punk at all. He thought he was used to this. He thought he knew how to see himself. If he couldn’t get respect, how could he—

“I’m a detective.” Mikkel steadily pulled away from the stop sign and his thoughts. “Detectives wear suits.”

“They certainly try. You’re showing too much cuff. Take the next right.” Arthur reclined his seat a bit so he could put his ankle on the opposite knee. He took enough care, however, not to scuff the interior of the car door. “Your car would also think you had balls, by the way, if you let it reach the speed limit every now and again.”

“I thought I told you to stop talking,” Mikkel said, but his calm voice was sounding a little wanting in the _calm_ area. How long had his cuff ratio been off? He couldn’t believe he’d talked to Lukas this morning with his cuffs wrong. “I’m not breaking my suspension on these poor excuses for roads.”

“That’s what suspensions are for, Your Majesty. They break so the rest of your chariot doesn’t.” Arthur turned the volume up to somewhere between Obnoxious and Earsplitting. “It’s this one up here.”

Mikkel tidily maneuvered his car backward into a parking spot. Arthur said something like _smashing captain jolly good landing_ but the music was too loud to be sure and Mikkel didn’t ask him to repeat himself. But, when they both climbed out, he hesitated before he closed his door. Arthur glanced at him over the top of the car, both eyebrows lifted this time in a surprisingly open inquiry. Mikkel looked again at the bloodstains on his jacket.

“Should I take”—he glanced at the building and lowered his voice—“my gun?”

Arthur cast around a nervous gaze, then whispered furtively, “If you have to ask a civilian for permission to use a police-issue firearm, maybe you shouldn’t have one.”

Mikkel narrowed his eyes. Arthur shrugged, slammed his door, and started up the stairs.

He left the gun in the car. Not that he would admit it to anyone, least of all this damned wolf, but he didn’t really feel comfortable carrying a weapon around all the time. If he had it, he would use it. What if he shot someone and the wound ended up accidentally lethal? Or, what if he went to shoot the gun and it jammed at the worst possible moment? It was best to rely on himself alone.

And of course there was the memory of the game reserve, dew on the grass, his father’s last attempt at bonding as men, the rifle awkward and cold in his hands, the poor little pheasant . . .

“Guns are more trouble than they’re worth,” Mikkel told Arthur when he caught up to him. He ignored the rolled eyes and instead focused on the door. “Have you tried it yet? I’ve taken lock-picking classes. I’d rather not kick it in without a warrant, that—”

Arthur nudged the door with his shoulder. It swung open cordially.

Now Mikkel raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, you know the Warren,” Arthur said. “Full of petty criminals. Aren’t lycans such brutes. Absolutely terrible. And it seems the one you’re after is not in.”

He was right. The apartment—just a dismal bedroom-living room-kitchen all rolled into one—was empty and looked like it had seen better days. Mikkel edged around the blood droplets on the floor and gave Arthur a pointed look.

“Workplace hazard.” Arthur picked up a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and lit one for himself. “Ah, thank you for offering, Toni, what a gracious host you are. What is that face for?”

Mikkel could only imagine what his face looked like. “Fingerprints?”

“What? Why?” Arthur dropped the pack. “Is a detective coming?”

Mikkel turned his back on Arthur. _Deep breaths._ “For the last time, stop talking. I’m on a case. This is actually important. So don’t touch anything else and don’t bother me.”

Arthur nodded importantly and wandered back toward the door.

Mikkel watched him blow messy smoke rings out into the tainted morning air. Not really morning anymore; he’d done a good job of wasting that. _Stay positive. Positivity makes things go smoother._ But negativity lent a certain obsessive desperation to proceedings, and that got things done. His father could attest to that.

 _Stop this. Right now._ He was infected by that trip to the Vargas mansion. He’d thought it completely un-noteworthy while he was there; it was only later that the symptoms started to show. He needed a lead. He needed something to go off so he could hurl himself into this case and think of nothing else, and then another case, and then another case, and then lots more cases, and a promotion, and plaques for years of faithful service, and a mansion and a vacation home, and money in his bank account, and a husband and kids and a dog and maybe a cat and a pond with pretty fish in it and then he could wrap all that up with a nice bow and drop it in his father’s lap and brush his hands together as if they were dusty, which they would not be, and say, _So there._

But in the short-term it was a lead that he needed.

So he did detective work. He put on gloves. He checked the cupboards, the underside of the table, above the ceiling tiles, behind the closet door. He wasn’t sure what evidence he would find in here; what evidence did you look for when trying to find a missing person? Well, notes, clues, coded messages of destinations, signs of a struggle, work left unfinished. What evidence did you look for when trying to find a potential kidnapper? Well . . .

The bed had been moved recently; he could see the marks its feet left in the carpet. Kneeling, he carefully lifted up the sprawled comforter and looked under the bed. Months if not years of dusty cobweb, a couple forgotten corn chips, and a stringless, dinged-up guitar. Mikkel slid it from its hiding place and reached into the sound hole. His fingertips immediately found plastic. Gingerly, he pulled out a handful.

There were two bags, one much bigger than the other, both containing dry clumps of greenish stuff. One Mikkel knew was weed, probably an ounce or so; the other he could only guess, since he’d never seen treated wolfsbane in real life, let alone held what had to be half a pound of it.

“Shit the bed,” Arthur said above him. “Look at it all.”

Mikkel glanced up at the wolf and was surprised to see genuine shock on his face, and maybe even a bit of fear. That heartened him a little. So there _were_ things he cared about. Wolfsbane was poisonous regardless of who ingested it—unless you were an uncollared wolf. Apparently, if you took just the right amount, your body could heal past the toxins and take you straight to a glorious high instead. Or you took too much, threw up for hours, suffered from confusion and delirium, and, if you were lucky, your heart stopped before the rest of your organs failed.

“He’s dealing,” Mikkel said, putting the bags down carefully despite their tight seals. “This is also why you wear gloves.”

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s the roots that really fuck you up. You wouldn’t die just from a bit of dust off that bag.”

Mikkel didn’t bother asking how he knew that. He just reached back into the guitar for the other things he’d felt, which turned out to be a haphazard stack of glossy photographs. He fanned them out across the carpet. Some of them were a couple smiling. Some of them were just one member of the couple in bed, looking at the camera with heavy-lidded eyes. Some of them were dark, taken at night from far away, just the blurry silhouette of someone walking past a window. A bedroom window in a mansion, viewed from the far end of their ballpark of a lawn.

“Is that Antonio?” Mikkel asked, feeling something fantastic and terrible start to quiver in his chest. _This is the beginning._

“Yeah, more naked than I ever wanted to see him.” Arthur ground his cigarette into the ashtray. “But I dunno who the other bloke is.”

“I do,” Mikkel said. At last, he’d gotten his lead. “It’s Lovino V—”

_“What the hell are you doing here?”_


	3. Chapter 3

Only now, seeing Mikkel with someone else in the room to provide context and contrast, did Arthur see how truly unacceptable he was. Reaching under the bed had undone his cuff readjustments; standing there with his body tense and wary, he looked almost too big for his suit, like he’d had a growth spurt the night before prom. Antonio’s clothes were stylish only in the way they hung off his body, which was to say the canvas was worth far more than the paint, but at least the whole ensemble fit together. There was something _hovering_ about Mikkel, a restless energy, puzzle pieces jammed together even though they didn’t quite fit. Like an animal in a cage too small for pacing. He hadn’t yet learned how to be comfortable in that tie. To Arthur, it felt like staring into a circus mirror; the same feelings, but the image stretched and wonky, unrecognizable.

And, also, he had a jawline sharp enough to cut fruit and a warrior’s brow and he had to be at least six-three without the hair. So, right: unacceptable.

“Antonio,” Arthur said grandly as he stepped round the bed. “Look at you, on two legs again. When did you get out? And, if you don’t mind me asking, how?”

“Actually, I do mind,” Antonio retorted. He tugged the door shut with his foot—the latch closed, but only because gravity asked it so nicely—and crossed the room to put bags of groceries onto the counter. When he stretched up to put a box of sugary cereal on the top shelf, Arthur caught a glimpse of his side. The wound translated lower on the human body, but it looked good. They would’ve stitched him up at the Halfway House, kept him in close confinement until he shifted back or they could be sure he wouldn’t chew himself up. Arthur was deeply saddened he hadn’t gotten to see Antonio with a cone on his head.

“You might as well tell us now,” Arthur remarked, “they’ll find the tunnel eventually.”

This was what he said instead of _You just told me last night you had no money. I know someone bailed you out and paid for your tags. So who was it?_

Antonio scoffed. “I’m not telling you anything. I have no reason to cooperate with you. You’re the ones trespassing right now. I could report—”

Mikkel cleared his throat and, when he had had their attention, nudged the bag of wolfsbane into view round the corner of the bed. Arthur hadn’t noticed he was wearing wingtips until now. He had no idea why he was surprised.

Antonio paused, jug of orange juice in hand. “. . . You wanna cut a deal?”

Mikkel’s brow furrowed slightly. He held up his badge. “I’m Detective De—”

The juice crashed to the floor and Antonio sprinted out of the apartment.

Arthur pointed at Mikkel’s badge. “Put that fucking thing away, so _help_ me.”

He didn’t linger for a response; the thrill of the chase was too strong. He tore for the door. Antonio was already halfway down the second staircase. Arthur considered the trajectory a moment, then swung up over the railing.

Somewhere, an engineer should have been satisfied, because their railing held up perfectly under the weight of one disgruntled lycan vaulting over it. It did not, however, manage to prevent said lycan and the lycan said lycan slammed into from busting straight through and thudding to the pavement below.

Fortunately Antonio had taken the brunt of the landing; he curled into himself, holding one of his elbows and cursing at Arthur in a way that made him think maybe that electronica song hadn’t been as romantic as he assumed. Arthur felt pain radiating from his knees and his shoulder, but adrenaline kept it nicely muffled. The hunter had caught his prey.

“What the hell, Kirkland?”

 _Kirkland?_ He rolled onto his back. Mikkel was standing over him, a grocery bag in his hand. It took Arthur a few moments to realize it was the drugs and the photographs inside, not bananas and salsa and whatever else impoverished Spanish werewolves ate while they were stoned.

“You just jumped twelve feet, at least,” Mikkel said. “Practically head-first, and landed on asphalt. You probably have a concussion. Look at the railing! You’re lucky you didn’t both break your backs.”

Antonio spat blood—his lip was split, but Arthur was pretty sure his shoulder was to blame for that—and groaned. “Fucking Bloodhound.”

Mikkel shook his head. “Antonio, I’m taking you to the station for questioning in relation to the disappearance of Lovino Vargas.”

 _You never said someone disappeared._ Of course, Arthur hadn’t asked, but he’d assumed it was just a robbery or maybe a drug thing, not . . . _Kidnapping? No wonder Densen’s so strung out._

Antonio lifted his head, eyes abruptly wide. “What? What do you mean, disappearance?” He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, barely noticing his own winces. “What happened to Lovi?”

Mikkel glanced down at Arthur. Arthur glanced back. So they’d both heard the tell-tale thinning of desperation in Antonio’s voice. And even in that, that little moment—his heart was a device recognizing the network, requesting to connect.

Extended sobriety was just asking for trouble.

“We’ll talk about it at the station,” Mikkel said. “Get in the back of the car, please.”

He turned to Arthur and, without even hesitating, offered a hand.

Arthur stared in confusion until he saw it: the challenge in those blue eyes, the silent _What’s your next move, wolf? Are we doing this together, or what?_

Arthur slapped his hand into Mikkel’s and let the detective haul him to his feet. Mikkel frowned at the gravel on his palm. Arthur took him by the wrist and brushed Mikkel’s hand over his own jacket.

“There,” Arthur said. “Wolf dirty, human clean. All’s right with the world again.”

Mikkel pulled his arm back, but not as harshly as Arthur thought he might. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hand, now that it had just touched Arthur from his ribs to his hip. Through two layers of clothing, of course, but Arthur got the sense that was irrelevant.

“Now, then,” Arthur said, to snap him out of his trance, “shall we see if our lovesick stalker happens to know where the misplaced trust fund baby has got to?”

Mikkel’s brow lowered on his eyes. That was another thing; his eyes were so, so blue. Unacceptably blue. “What is wrong with you?”

Arthur shrugged. “Well, I probably have a concussion, for starters.”

The station smelled exactly the same. They’d put up different posters on the bulletin board and replaced the mysteriously stained chairs in the waiting area, but the rest of it was the same. Ink, coffee, cleaner, gun powder. Arthur shoved his hands into his pockets and forced himself to breathe through his mouth.

Mikkel ushered Antonio into an interrogation room and raised an eyebrow at Arthur. He was holding the door open.

Arthur didn’t bother pointing out that case consultants—if that’s even what he was—didn’t take part in questioning. He just stepped inside and leant back against the wall. He remembered this one too. Same rubbish bin. Same synthetic marble table with that little chip in the edge. Same framed photograph of a random cabin on some nameless grassy shore. These chairs hadn’t been replaced, despite their stains. The innocent public generally didn’t see these rooms, though, so that’s probably why.

Mikkel sat down across from Antonio. His suit made the rest of the room look even worse. Arthur had thought he was above attraction to something as bland as a pristine suit, but in a place as mundane as this . . . it looked like a crossover between a cologne commercial and a drunk driving PSA.

“I think we should start,” Mikkel said, “with you telling me where you were at nine o’clock last night.”

“I wasn’t anywhere near Lovino,” Antonio said. His hands weren’t cuffed, but he held them on the tabletop like they were. Arthur recognized tiny spots of faint discoloration in the crooks of his bent elbows. Shifting could only wipe a slate so clean. “I haven’t seen him in weeks. Months.”

“Which is it?”

Antonio’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Is it weeks or months?”

“Man, I don’t know. We broke up two months ago. More or less. I haven’t seen him since then.”

“Okay. So then you took pictures of him through his window and had them developed while you were still dating?”

Antonio stared at Mikkel. Arthur did, too, and what he could see of the side of his face looked totally serious. _Have you ever interrogated a wolf before? Does this method usually work for you?_

“That’s fucked up,” Antonio informed him. “I’m not like that. I just _told_ you I haven’t seen him since we split. So don’t try to make me sound like the bad guy. I didn’t have anything to do with this. How long has he been missing? Are there other people looking for him, or is it just you?”

A slight lowering of Mikkel’s brow there; the _just you_ was enough to cut. “I am currently the only detective assigned to this case, but it’s none of your concern. I—”

“It _is_ my concern,” Antonio snapped. “Just because we ended it doesn’t mean I don’t still care about him. He was my . . .” Something sparked in his eyes, something ragged and dangerous. “You can’t keep me in here against my will. This is fucking blackmail.”

“Actually,” Mikkel said, an edge to his voice that betrayed his tried patience, “we can. I have probable cause to arrest—”

“Oh, so now you’re fucking _arresting_ me?”

“Well—”

“Alright.” Arthur pushed off the wall and half-lifted himself up to perch on the table. “Take five, would you, Thor? Thank you.” He looked down at Antonio without bothering to let his features soften. “Listen. We’ll find him faster if we have help. You want Vargas to turn up safe and sound, don’t you?”

Antonio’s glower faded, flames fell to coals. “Yeah.”

“Then you want to answer our questions. Right?”

Antonio sighed, but he nodded.

“Excellent.” He hopped off the table and gave Mikkel a look he hoped he could recognize as warning. Perhaps he’d only imagined their moment of connection at Antonio’s place. _Whatever._ It wasn’t his case, anyway. Someone was missing, but he was a civilian. He wasn’t expected to do anything. He didn’t owe anyone anything.

Mikkel’s eyes flickered up to him for just a second. In that cold blue, there it was: gratitude.

_Fuck._

“Alright,” Mikkel said, sitting back in his chair a bit. “Let’s start this again. Can you tell me where you were last night?”

Antonio looked down at his hands. “I was getting bane.”

“Who’s your supplier?”

Antonio gnawed on a hangnail on his thumb.

Mikkel glanced over his shoulder at Arthur. He shook his head. They weren’t here about drugs. Better not to push this one, if Antonio could be led in other directions.

“Alright,” Mikkel said again. He kept squaring his shoulders in that ridiculous suit. It had obviously been tailored to allow for movement, but _for the love of God._ He should’ve taken a body language class along with lock-picking and Perfectionism 101. “What did you do after you got the drugs?”

Antonio sneered lightly at _drugs_ and replied, “I went home. Ate what I had left in the fridge. Just started to relax when the Bloodhound busted my door open.”

Another glance over the shoulder, this time incredulous. Arthur gave him a _what can you do_ shrug. Mikkel shook his head and focused on Antonio: “That seems like a long time to fill. How long would you say you were talking to your supplier?”

Green eyes found the ceiling. “I don’t _know_ , man. I got there around nine or nine-thirty and there was the usual shit going on, so I stayed a couple hours. We were talking. Not just me and him, there were other people there. Lots of people. Most nights he has something going on. People like to go there to hang out and forget about life.”

Arthur worked to school his features. He didn’t know for sure who Antonio was talking about, and he didn’t know where these parties were being held. _Would it be Bas?_ He crossed his arms over his chest. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the Warren had even deeper tunnels than he’d found; he’d only been at this a year, after all, and he knew more about it than any of the other LCOs. But it still smarted. What good was a spider in his web if he didn’t even know how big it was?

“So there are people we could speak to and confirm you have an alibi,” Mikkel was saying.

“Yeah, I guess. But don’t expect them to be as nice as me.”

Mikkel smiled stiffly. “I won’t. And speaking of that, do you mind telling me why you took those pictures of Lovino?”

“ _I_ didn’t take most of them. He’s the photographer, not me.” Antonio looked away. “That’s how I met him. He was doing a project for school and he wanted me to be in it. He took my picture, on the street. I got his number.”

Arthur wondered how that meet-and-greet had gone down, when Lovino brought Antonio home. _Drug dealer, meet politician._ Put that way, they’d probably gotten along just fine.

“And you dated how long?”

“Almost three months.”

Mikkel blinked. Arthur had to stifle a smirk. He’d expected a longer amount of time too, but he had the good grace not to gasp like a housewife about it.

“Who decided to end the relationship?”

“It was mutual,” Antonio replied.

They looked at him.

“. . . But he was the one who said he wanted space,” Antonio muttered.

“And your way of giving him space was to take secret pictures of him at night?”

Antonio glared again, so Arthur had to speak up. “Don’t try to defend yourself. You know it’s not a good look, mate.”

Antonio sighed again, but this one was closer to a heave of defeat than a huff of defiance. “I just—I miss him. So I’ve been, you know, checking up on him. I don’t go onto their property. I just stop by and look in and see if . . . if he’s okay.”

“And if he has another boyfriend yet,” Arthur guessed.

To his surprise, Antonio looked wary. “It’s not like that. Well, it kind of is. But not totally. He’s . . . He could get with somebody bad. I worry about him.” He shrugged limply. “I wasn’t taking pictures to be creepy. I used to call him every night to make sure he was okay. I can’t do that now, so I just wanted something to look at and remember that nothing bad is happening to him.”

The room got quiet.

Antonio looked from Mikkel to Arthur, gaze brightening with fresh anguish. “And now he’s missing. He could be going through hell right now, and I’m not there for him. I _told_ him he needed someone to keep him safe. And look what happened.”

“Let us worry about protecting him now.” Mikkel stood up. “Stay here. I’ll be back shortly.” He gestured to Arthur and led him out into the hall. Closing the door, he said in an undertone, “He knows more than he’s saying.”

Arthur turned his back on the hallway, pretended to be interested in a fleck of paint on the wall. “D’you think? I don’t think he’s lying about not being creepy. Well, I think _he_ thinks what he’s doing is normal. Are you thinking mental illness or something? He locked Lovino up somewhere and he isn’t even aware of it?”

Mikkel rubbed at his jaw, as if it wasn’t defined enough by its very existence. “Hmm. It’s a possibility. But he’s talking—or, _not_ talking about those ‘bad people’ Lovino could date. If he knows enough about them to be worried, then he’s involved with them too. And if I know the Warren—”

“You don’t,” Arthur put in, then felt a little hollow when he recalled that he himself didn’t know these faceless villains of Antonio’s. Had they been the ones to bail him out of the zoo? Did Sebastião have that kind of money?

Mikkel’s mouth slanted impatiently. “I’m saying I think it’s some sort of ring. A group of people who have connections with wolfsbane growers, obviously, and probably other dangerous substances. Weapons, maybe. Would you put kidnapping for ransom past people like that?”

Arthur didn’t like thinking of the Warren as _people like that._ It was riddled with bad apples, but they didn’t ruin the whole bunch. They were people, and . . . he thought he’d carved out his heart a year ago, but apparently he’d left enough tissue behind for it to regenerate, because he’d come to think of the Warren as his people, goddamn it. _A wolf is nothing without a pack. That’s why we do this for them._

If he didn’t stop hearing that voice, he was going to lose it.

Mikkel was looking down at him, expectant. Arthur shrugged, picking at the paint with his thumbnail. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Sounds good. So you’re arresting him, then?”

Mikkel’s face seemed a little askance at that. “Yes, I have probable cause to at least hold him until he starts to cooperate. And if he doesn’t, he’ll be up for the wolfsbane he was holding.”

Arthur remembered this feeling well: being so close to the next step, always clawing toward the top, forever being dragged back down. You never quite got to the top, and if one day you finally did, what was your reward? The realization that there was nowhere to go but down, and there was nothing to soften the landing.

“Well.” Mikkel offered a hand. “Thank you for your assistance. You were . . . helpful.”

Arthur stared at him. Over before it had even begun. But of course it was. He wasn’t working this case; he was a consultant, nothing more. He’d run his course, been as useful as he was going to be to this detective. Now he was being dismissed. Tumbling down the mountainside, watching the summit fade into the haze far, far above him.

“Yeah,” Arthur said again, shaking his hand firmly. The strength he expected but the callused palm surprised him. Where did a polished suit get hands like that? Interesting . . . not that it mattered. This was nothing, and it was over. “Happy to be of service. Tell your friends. I also do birthday parties.”

“Really.” Mikkel’s eyes got crinkly in the corners; he didn’t seem to realize he was still holding his hand. “And what do you do at birthday parties?”

“I turn into a bloodthirsty monster and terrorize the children.”

There was just a second—then Mikkel was laughing. The before and after was stark, because it entirely transformed his face. He was determined, impatient, prime for riling—and then he was laughing, unashamedly loud, eyes sparkling through their squint, a grin any wider he’d have to turn sideways for it to fit here in the hall. It was the sort of laugh you heard at a bar and glanced over, and even if you were cross about it you’d be cured by the time you got done looking at him, God forbid that day should come.

Arthur caught himself. He couldn’t. _No._ This was not okay. It had only been a _year_!

“I’ll avoid balloons,” Mikkel said, “when I give you a ride home, then.”

Arthur realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled with a pointed look at their hands.

Mikkel released him. “Or I could call you a cab.”

Arthur considered informing how presumptive he was, how misplaced his confidence was, how even someone as tall as him could be in over his head. Then he watched the rest of the laugh fade from Mikkel’s face and found himself mourning it. _No. Please, no._ He had an out, he had to take it. The less time spent with this, the better. He had to get away while he still could. He’d done what was asked of him.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll call one myself,” Arthur told him. “You should get back to your witness before he gets any antsier. Thanks for today, mate. I enjoyed myself. You were entertaining.”

Mikkel’s brow furrowed as he struggled to gauge how insulting those words were supposed to be. “You’re . . . welcome?”

Arthur just half-lifted a hand to wave. He was already making his way down the hall, toward the door. He thought he caught a glimpse of white hair, but he didn’t look back. He was already overflowing with memories. He had a morning shift tomorrow, so drinking was a bad idea, but he didn’t care about any of it.

As a Spanish stalker could attest: caring hurt too much.


	4. Chapter 4

Lovino looked like he was asleep.

He wasn’t asleep. He was dead.

Mikkel had been staring at the thing that used to be Lovino Vargas for the better part of twenty minutes, absently noting the lack of things to note, and he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He was a missing person case, yesterday. Today, he was a corpse. He was something an early-morning jogger had literally stumbled across. He was the reason Representative Vargas was not in the office today, and was instead huddled with his remaining grandson in their mansion, mourning a life that had barely even begun.

 _Find who did this._ Those were the words Vargas had left Mikkel with, when he came to identify the body. His voice had been close to trembling, all the worse for the fact he could only just hide it. It was not the voice he used when addressing shootings on the News. It was raw, composed anguish. _They have to pay._

Mikkel did another slow circle of the table. Lovino was just as they’d found him: still clothed expensively but casually, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, hands at his sides. Mikkel had seen the photos taken by the on-call officer, and the pose was the same. Lovino had not collapsed or been struck by a vehicle. He had been placed.

On the side of the road, where the civilized city stopped and the Warren began.

No lacerations. No contusions. No signs of a struggle. No signs of any outward suffering at all. Only when Mikkel leaned in close to Lovino’s face did he see light swelling of his eyelids.

He’d been crying, before he died.

Mikkel couldn’t stomach any more. This was not the first dead body he’d seen, but the others were natural causes. One was his grandmother, tucked peacefully into her coffin. This was not that. This could not be called peaceful. This was a boy who would never become a legal adult. He would never vote. Never marry. Never . . .

_This is my fault._

Mikkel backed off to let the coroner work. She gave him a faintly sympathetic look. She’d been here a long time. “I’ll send you the report when the autopsy is finished.”

Mikkel nodded. “Thank you.”

Cause of death was the next step. He couldn’t bring Lovino back—and the truth of it sang _failure failure failure_ in his heart—but he could find the person who took him and make damned sure they regretted it.

Antonio was not pleased to have spent the night in a police station. Mikkel was not sympathetic.

“When are you going to let me out of here?” Antonio asked when Mikkel brought him back to the interrogation room. “Isn’t there a limit to how long you can keep me without, like, putting me in actual jail? And shouldn’t I get a phone call? I—”

Mikkel slammed his hand down on the table. Antonio jolted into silence. Mikkel let him suffer under the weight of his glare for a moment, then lifted his hand. Antonio’s gaze hesitantly dropped to the photograph he’d left there. It wasn’t taken with artistic intent, but there was still something to be said for it: the smooth slopes of his face, the soft light of dawn, the wild roses blooming among the gravel along the side of the road.

Here was the true distinction between the deaths in Mikkel’s past cases and this one. He had never been the detective in charge of it all. He had observed, during his training, other detectives and police officers taking apart their suspects. He’d seen people brought to tears under questioning. But never was he the one holding the weapon.

Yesterday, it would have felt like power. Today . . .

He was a fraud in this suit.

“But . . .” Antonio’s fingertips hovered over the photo; his cuffs clinked softly. “But . . .”

_I don’t know why I expected any better._

“Lovi . . .”

_Do you think you’re the victim here?_

“No . . .”

_Do you think your mother does not deserve to be proud of her son? Would that be too much to ask?_

Antonio burst from his seat, snarling, “You said you would find him! You said you—”

It was that sudden quiet, with the visceral cut-off of words and air, that snapped Mikkel back into the room. Only then did he realize he had a hand around Antonio’s throat. He could feel the small silver links of the collar pressing into his palm, just the faintest chill of the metal where it had not yet been warmed by body heat.

_Oh, we’re going to be dramatic now, are we?_

Mikkel threw himself back as if he’d been burned.

Antonio staggered against his chair and rubbed his neck; he _had_ been burned from his collar digging into his skin. Mikkel could already see the makings of red marks that would only worsen the more Antonio worried at them.

Mikkel felt an apology forming on his tongue, but he swallowed it. “Sit down,” he commanded instead. “I know what I said. I intend to find the person who did this, and you’re all I have to work with. So if that bothers you as much as it bothers me, I suggest you give me someone else to get answers out of.”

Antonio opened his mouth, looked again into Mikkel’s eyes, and sat.

Mikkel did not sit. He crossed his arms and paced.

“I don’t know,” Antonio said. His voice had a warble in it, but whether this came from fear, grief, or a combination of the two was impossible to say. “If I knew who took him, I would’ve told you yesterday. I’m _not_ _involved_ with any of this. I would never . . .” He shook his head as his voice perished. Grief, then.

Mikkel had no time for grief. “You said he was around bad people, didn’t you?”

“What?”

Mikkel took one step toward the table, looking to slam it again, and Antonio took the hint. “I don’t know! I don’t know who he’s been hanging around. I don’t know. I—look, I just know that sometimes, the parties, rich kids would come. Human kids. And they’d let them in ’cause of their money. But nobody ever got kidnapped!”

Mikkel narrowed his eyes. “Whose parties? Your supplier?”

Antonio’s mouth hung open for an extended moment of despair. “I . . . yeah.”

“I need a name.”

“Okay, listen, I don’t deal directly with the main guy if I can help it. He’s fucking scary. If he knew I was telling you—”

“A _name_.”

“Okay, okay, okay. I wasn’t pushing bane before. This is a new thing, because the registration goes up, and my rent, and— _okay_ , I’m telling you. My brother got me in, and I go through him for my supply. Only trusted people can sell bane, but he put in good word for me. His name is Sebastião. My brother, I mean. He knows a lot of those guys, way more than I do. I barely know anybody. I wasn’t on their good side for a really long time, and I was just starting to fix shit up, and now . . .”

His gaze dropped again to the photograph on the table. A muscle worked in his jaw, and he sniffled.

Mikkel stilled. “I’m not leaving without the main guy’s name.”

Antonio shook his head helplessly. “You don’t get it, man. You can’t just go knocking on his door. I don’t even know where he lives. I just know where his big parties happen sometimes, and you’re not gonna find him _there_.”

“Why not?”

“Because he only has them on _some_ nights.” Antonio put his head into his cuffed hands. “He is gonna fucking kill me if he finds out I told you this.”

 _If he’s not afraid of killing people, then he’s the one I need to talk to._ “Well, then,” Mikkel said, “it’s a good thing you won’t be getting out any time soon.”

He only had to knock once this time.

Arthur opened his door, in an entirely different outfit of tattered jeans and black shirt, and raised an eyebrow. “Lost again?”

Mikkel showed him the address his GPS refused to accept. “I need to talk to Sebastião. And then I need to talk to Lars.”

“Lars as in—”

“Lars van den Berg, yes,” Mikkel said. “The drug dealer, gangster, whatever the fuck he is, yes.”

It was Arthur’s look of alarm, rather than his own ears, that informed Mikkel he had sworn. When was the last time he threw a word around like that outside of Gilbert’s company, when he was perfectly sober? He didn’t even curse when people cut him off in traffic. He could feel himself fracturing, a fault line between what he was and what he might not be able to be.

Arthur’s eyes were searching his face now. Mikkel thought again of Lovino on the table, the sickly song, and didn’t attempt to keep the shame from his face.

Arthur deflated slightly in the doorway. “Is he—”

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mikkel started. No one had said it to him. He’d said it to Vargas and to Berwald this morning, but everyone else had either treated it as a typical happenstance or hadn’t been there at all. Gilbert was off today. Lukas had no way of knowing what had happened. The people closest to him, the people he’d thought might be the ones he could rely on for support, were nowhere to be found. And here was the Bloodhound, offering genuine sympathy like it cost himself nothing. _Maybe it didn’t._

It hadn’t occurred to Mikkel, for some reason, that Arthur might be a good person.

 _Thanks_ felt like too much, so he just inclined his head. “Will you be my guide—”

“Don’t say dog.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“But you were thinking it. Yes, I’ll take you. In my car.” Arthur intercepted Mikkel’s protest before it even saw the light of day. “Are you going to let me smoke in yours?”

“No,” Mikkel replied.

“Then we’re taking mine. Go get the gun you’re not going to use. I’ll be down in a minute.”

He closed the door in Mikkel’s face, but not quite so hard as before.

“I only know of Lars’s name,” Arthur said as they drove, or perhaps _careened_ would be a better word. _Barreled_ , perhaps. His car was a testament that government insurance plans were not fussy so long as they got their payment in full. “Not so much his reputation. Usually his name comes up when people talk about wolfsbane, but I figured he was just a dealer, not the top of a supply chain. And now you’re thinking of adding murderer to the list?”

“It’s a lead,” Mikkel said, brushing ash off the gearshift. “Those things will kill you, you know.”

“I hope so.” Arthur blew smoke out the window. They were all down except the rear passenger—broken, apparently, though not in any way visible to Mikkel—so wind buffeted them from all sides. The stereo was even more forceful. “Well, I suppose nothing’s impossible. If he knew Lovino through Toni, maybe, or he wanted to do something to get Toni in line. Did he tell you the specifics of why he wasn’t invited to their tea parties ’til now?”

“He just said it was family drama. He and his brother weren’t talking. Then they made up.”

Arthur’s thoughtful hum was nearly lost under all the noise, but he didn’t add anything to it.

Mikkel squinted as the sun reflected off the chrome of the door handle. His own car had bits of chrome highlight like that; it had looked a lot fancier on the showroom floor than it did blinding him on the highway. He wanted to feel good about being on his way to progress, but why did he deserve to feel anything but worthless? Lovino was dead. He’d failed him. Even if he found the killer and forced a confession out of them and saw them locked away for the rest of their lives . . . he’d still fucked up.

_This was supposed to be a fresh start. I was supposed to do everything right._

He wanted to smash his fist into something. He didn’t.

He wanted to claw his fingers through his hair. He didn’t.

Arthur pulled over. They were on the outskirts now. If not for the music, Mikkel would have been able to hear the roar of the overpass not so far away. The sidestreets ran out here, jutting into this space they parked in that was perhaps supposed to be a turn-around spot, or a general rest spot, or just a half-moon of gravel edged by brittle grass and stubby wild shrubs. It was not where Lovino had been left, but it could have been.

“Don’t stop here,” Mikkel said tightly, even though they were already stopped.

“I think you need to get out of the car,” Arthur told him, then climbed out himself as if to demonstrate.

Mikkel glared at him through the open window. “We don’t have time for this. I already—”

“Wasted yesterday?” Arthur guessed. “That already happened. You can’t bring him back. No good having a fit about it. Now get out of the car. You’re fucking making me nervous.”

Mikkel swore expansively in his head, but got out of the car. He spread his hands at his sides.

Arthur observed this display, then tossed down his cigarette. “Yeah, you need the edge taken off.” He went round to the back of his car and opened the trunk. He did so much shuffling and fumbling Mikkel seriously expected him to come up with a bag of weed and rolling paper.

Instead, he had a metal object in his hand. He offered it to Mikkel.

He took it. It had been so long since he’d had to change a tire, he almost didn’t recognize the tool. It was a tire iron.

Arthur nodded to his car, and only then did Mikkel understand.

“What? I’m not doing that. It’s your car. It’s a waste—”

“Of time? Of money? Or were you going to surprise me and say something that’s actually important?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “The car’s a secondhand piece of shit. The fact that it’s continued to run after the abuse it’s been through has led me to the conclusion that it’s a masochist. So whatever you’re thinking of doing to it, don’t hold back. It’s into it.”

Mikkel stared at him, then at the car.

“She’s been naughty,” Arthur added, as if that might entice him. “Consider it a two-ton stress ball.”

“A sedan doesn’t weigh two tons,” Mikkel told him. “Probably one and a—”

“Just hit the fucking car, Densen.”

Mikkel considered. This car, the rusted panels and corroded rims and an alternator that shuddered every few minutes as the motor idled. This place, the mangy hem of the Warren that the good people of the city would only see in passing, if they happened to glance out the window while on that overpass. This man, this wolf, this impossible creature of darkness watching him without expectation. No one looked at him like that. Did he like it?

Lovino lay dead on the table. Mikkel’s father turned his back on him. Antonio’s pulse hammered his palm. The sun shined off the windshields, rows and rows of them . . .

Mikkel hit the fucking car. He swung low and struck the rear bumper. He’d expected more of a sound. It was a rather dull thud, plastic not metal. It didn’t leave much of a dent. Only something you’d notice if you looked for it. And yet: _This is not allowed._

He looked at Arthur.

The Bloodhound smirked at him. “Satisfied with that, are you?”

This was allowed. They made the rules. It thrilled him.

He beat the shit out of the bumper. It didn’t take long for the paint to rupture and ugly grey-black to bite through. Mikkel didn’t touch the tail lights or the license plate; he didn’t want to be the thing that kept the car off the road. He just worked his way from the passenger side to the driver side, and when there was precious little plastic left to mangle, he straightened up and got his breath back.

Arthur stood a few feet back, nodding along as if Mikkel had made several thought-provoking points. He’d lit another cigarette at some juncture and he blew a pair of sloppy smoke rings. He frowned at them, then waited until the current song pounded to a halt and the next one thrashed itself awake before he said again, “Satisfied with that?”

Mikkel put the tire iron back, reassembled the mess of bottles and jackets and shattered CD cases and booster cables and muzzles and cuffs, and shut the trunk. His hand felt lighter now without it. Actually—all of him did.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Good.” Arthur nudged the edge of the bumper with his boot, testing the flex of the battered plastic. Nothing fell off, aside from a bit of paint. Arthur didn’t quite laugh, but the sound he made was amused. “Glad I didn’t waste your time. Your tie’s crooked, by the way.”

Mikkel glanced down at himself. His tie was indeed off the arrow-straight course he’d set it on this morning, but not noticeably so. Like that first dent: only something you saw if you already knew it was there. Mayhem licked his veins. This type of fire hadn’t burned since he graduated high school, and even then he’d been looking over his shoulder, never letting the flames get so high that his parents would see them.

Probably this wasn’t good.

Arthur dropped into the driver seat and whipped the car back onto the road. The tires spun uselessly for enough seconds that gravel flung everywhere; Mikkel leaned to watch the cloud dissipate in their wake.

“. . . that way?”

Mikkel rolled his window up. The heat wasn’t that bad anyway. “What?”

Arthur kept his eyes on the road. “You said you don’t dress loud and angry, yesterday. Why not? Don’t say detectives wear suits.”

Mikkel supposed that question was warranted. His behavior over the past ten minutes was not what one generally expected from someone who didn’t dress like . . . well, like Arthur. He cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers, a habit his mother had always sniped about. “I went to a private school. With uniforms. Clothes were never a matter of choice.”

What a posh picture he painted with those simple words. Couldn’t have been further from the truth. And clothes still weren’t a matter of choice. He heard his parents huffing whenever he even considered trying new things. Say what you would about the way the Bloodhound dressed—and Mikkel could think of several things off the top of his head—but at least it was _him._ He seemed so comfortable inhabiting an expression of himself; why did Mikkel feel so vulnerable when he tried to do the same?

Arthur turned the car off. At last, they were parked in front of something not quite a house and not quite a trailer. Someone had written _bêbado pra caralho!_ in red spray paint near the door and someone else—or perhaps the same person, though that seemed unlikely—had come along behind them and added the punctuation in green. A sandal had found its way onto the roof and didn’t seem in any hurry to come down. A bald tire sat near a car it would never fit and, from the generous heap of potting soil in its center, a sun of marigolds bloomed vibrantly.

“This is the brother-slash-drug dealer?” Mikkel asked.

“Sebastião,” Arthur confirmed, then smiled stiffly.

Mikkel followed his gaze to the screen door, where a long-haired version of Antonio stood with his middle finger pressed against the mesh.

“Is that because I’m a detective?” Mikkel wondered aloud.

“No, it’s probably because I fucked him once and then didn’t call him again.” Arthur caught Mikkel’s gaze. “ _What?_ Of course I didn’t call him. He’s a drug dealer. I can’t fuck a drug dealer. It’s a conflict of interest.”

Mikkel was beyond words.

“Ugh. I didn’t know he was a drug dealer until the next morning, does that make it better? It’s your lot’s job to lock people up for shit like that. I just do the collars.”

“. . . You could have mentioned any of this on the way over here,” Mikkel told him.

“Oh, right, like _that_ would’ve put you in a better mood.” Arthur hurled himself out of the car and slammed the door shut, but his voice was affable. “Sebastião, you’re looking well with that uncollared neck. My associate here wants to have a few words with you. Shall we do this the easy way, or the hard way? I’ll take off my coat if it’s the latter, it’s really too humid out here for exer—”

There would be no taking off of coats. Sebastião was already throwing a skillet at Arthur’s head and, when that missed, launching himself at Arthur instead. Mikkel gave himself one long moment to heave a sigh, then got out of the car.

He was learning swiftly that, when it came to the Bloodhound, it was always the hard way.

Mikkel waited until Arthur was the one on top, then seized him by an arm and the back of his jacket. Sebastião pushed himself to his feet, panting. Arthur shrugged free of Mikkel’s grip and instead braced his hands on his knees.

“I’m pleasantly surprised,” Arthur remarked, rather breathless himself. “I figured you too pretty for that sort of thing.”

“Hm, that sounds familiar.” Sebastião blew some strands of dark hair out of his face. His face was swelling in a way that would generally prelude a black eye, but it was only an overreaction of the tissue, cells working overtime to heal.

It had been a long time since Mikkel was around an uncollared wolf on his own turf, and it made him wish he hadn’t left his gun beneath the passenger seat of Arthur’s car. Still, since Sebastião had not shifted to attack Arthur, perhaps he was not a true threat.

Arthur’s temple had been scraped on the asphalt, but other than that he seemed whole. “It was ages ago, mate. Don’t go all alpha male on me. That’s a porn thing,” he added for Mikkel’s benefit.

“I know what it is,” Mikkel snapped, then regretted it when Arthur arched a lewd eyebrow.

“I’m not upset about that,” Sebastião put in. He finger-combed his hair and secured it into a tail with the elastic on his wrist. “I don’t care that you fucked me. I care that you fucked me over.”

Arthur had wandered to pick up the skillet and seemed surprised by the heft of it. “Pray tell?”

Sebastião narrowed his eyes. “You locked up Antonio. Who do you think paid his way?”

“To be fair,” Arthur said, tossing the skillet up so it spun and then catching it messily by the handle again, “Densen here locked him up, too. How is this thing so balanced?”

“Give me that.” Mikkel snatched the skillet from him and handed it back to Sebastião. “My name is Detective Densen and I’m investigating the kidnapping and murder of Lovino Vargas. If you know anything, I need to hear it. Right now.”

Some emotion darkened Sebastião’s face, but Mikkel didn’t know him well enough to interpret it. He shrugged, glancing away. “Never heard of him.”

Mikkel imagined the tire iron in his hand again. A dead boy on the side of the road. “Then you can tell me why you can afford to bail your brother out, but you don’t have a collar yourself. And, when you’re done doing that, you can tell me where I can find Lars. And then we’ll give you a warning and a week’s time to get a collar on.”

Sebastião’s eyes slid from Mikkel to Arthur and back again. “If I were you, I’d stay out of that mess. There are people in the Warren you don’t want to fuck with.”

“That,” Mikkel said, “is not what I asked.”

Sebastião shrugged again and turned his back, climbing up through the door. “What are you going to do, arrest me too? There might be an accident, you know. The Warren is a dangerous place.”

The screen door clapped shut, and a moment later the real door did too.

Mikkel’s hands fisted at his sides. Frustration crackled through him, electric and awful. He was not leaving here without information. He started for the steps.

Arthur held up a hand to halt him. “Let me do it. They won’t write me up.”

Mikkel hesitated, but it was true that he really didn’t want any form of altercation on his record, even if it was instigated by the other party. He nodded, crossed his arms over his chest.

Arthur vanished into the trailer/house. Mikkel heard muffled laughter, then muffled cursing, then muffled crashing. The commotion made its way to one end of the place, then back to the other, then finally burst out the door. Quite literally: the door broke clean free from its hinges and slammed to the ground beneath Sebastião, whose V-neck had been cut to ribbons and whose blood was oozing from a slice in his abdomen. Arthur leant lazily in the doorway and cut a satisfying tear along the length of the screen, right down the middle.

“Don’t fuck up my place,” Sebastião spat. “I never fucked up _your_ place.”

“No,” Arthur agreed, “because I didn’t call you back, and you can see what a good decision that was. Cheer up, now you and Toni will have matching scars. That’ll be great for you. Brotherly bonding, pub stories, whatnot.”

Mikkel realized Sebastião was still bleeding in earnest because he’d been wounded with a silver weapon. Then he realized said weapon was the butterfly knife in Arthur’s hand.

“Those are illegal,” Mikkel said, more incredulous than stern.

“Only if you get caught,” Arthur said, swinging the sheath back onto the knife and putting it in his pocket.

Mikkel shook his head and looked pointedly at Sebastião. “Obviously neither of us care about danger. So just tell us how to get in contact with Lars, and I won’t come back with a warrant to search this place for wolfsbane.”

Sebastião was far from pretty now. He scowled in plain disgust. “Fine. But it’s a waste of your time. You don’t deal directly with Lars. You go through his sister, Emma.” He twisted to glare at Arthur over his shoulder. “Who is a better lay than you, just so you know.”

“Duly noted.”

Mikkel snapped his fingers. Arthur and Sebastião looked at him sharply. He stifled a scoff. _Wolves._ “Tell us how to contact Emma, then.”

“I’ll give you her business number, but don’t expect her to say anything serious. She’s just the PR person. She’s basically Lars’s secretary. She doesn’t know anything important, and Lars keeps it that way.” Sebastião’s eyes sparked, just like Antonio’s. “To protect her from people like _you_.”

Mikkel didn’t bother pointing out that no one would need to be protected from people like him if they were just not criminals in the first place. “Fine. But she’ll get us a meeting with her brother?”

Sebastião gave a third, painful shrug. “Maybe. You’ll have to ask her. She’s not gonna do anything for free, though, I can tell you that much. Lars doesn’t believe in charity.” He held his side as he got to his feet, teeth clenched. “Which is why it was so hard to get him to put up with my brother.”

Mikkel programmed the number into his phone while Arthur picked up the door and propped it against the wall. Sebastião glared at both of them and asked, “Are you done making messes for me to clean up?”

Mikkel glanced at the house, at Arthur, then nodded to Sebastião. “For now.”

Mikkel had to try the number eleven times before he got an answer instead of a busy signal.

A woman with the cheery tone of a telemarketer asked, “Hello, how did you get this number?”

Arthur glanced at him sharply from the driver seat. They were parked beside Mikkel’s car, behind Arthur’s apartment building. The wolf had willingly turned his stereo all the way down for the call, which was more a sign of dedication than politeness.

“Hello,” Mikkel said warily. “I got it from Sebastião.”

“Alright,” she said. “And what are you looking for?”

If only it were that easy. “I need to talk to Lars van den Berg.”

“That won’t be necessary. Is this about detainment? I can have you out by three o’clock. Let me bring up a contract. Do you understand what simple interest is? I’ll need a first and last name.”

Mikkel wondered how many wolves got their first high school math lessons on the phone at Silver Linings. “No, that’s not why I’m calling. I’m not a lycan. My name is Detective Densen and I’m investigating a murder.”

Arthur winced, but he kept his lips pinched together.

There was a long pause, and when Emma’s voice returned it was not nearly as enthused as before. “Do you have a warrant?”

“No. I wouldn’t be asking, if I had a warrant. I just want to have a civil conversation with him. If Lars knows anything at all related to this death, that would help us punish whoever did this. I assume your brother wouldn’t want a murderer walking his streets?”

Half of Arthur’s mouth smirked.

“No,” Emma replied, rather strained, “he would not. But he is very busy, as am I. He helps people all day long. They line up for his help, in fact. If you want an audience, you’ll need to pay for it.”

“Name a price,” Mikkel said. He wasn’t entirely sure of the protocol for obtaining money to use on a case, but he’d figure that out later. There was always the savings account he’d been dribbling funds into, bit by bit as he paid off his student loans with the other hand. _Soon._

Another pause, longer than the first. Mikkel was pretty sure he could hear indistinct chatter somewhere on the other end and wondered if it was Lars himself Emma was speaking to. He didn’t linger on that thought; the impotence of it would drive him mad, and he felt he’d already expressed a full day’s allotment of madness.

“A key,” Emma said, so abrupt Mikkel had to replay the sounds in his mind for them to become words. “Get us a key, and I will set aside some time for you.”

Mikkel thought of Berwald, Gilbert, Lukas. None of them would let this slide if they found out.

Then he thought of Lovino, his family.

Arthur watched him.

“Fine,” Mikkel said. “You’ll get a key. And I want to speak to him this af—”

“Call me this evening, between seven and eight o’clock, with the key in your hand. If you don’t have it, forget this number. Goodbye.”

She hung up.

Mikkel watched the screen of his phone go black. Trepidation prickled over his skin and settled uneasily in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten anything but a protein shake this morning, but he couldn’t imagine it now. This felt like fight or flight. And somehow, at the same time, it felt like every step forward was three in the opposite direction.

“So,” Arthur said.

Mikkel glanced at him.

“Are you planning on stealing a key from the station?”

Mikkel sighed. Most uncollared wolves were fully committed to the lifestyle, shunning the binds of society by cutting their collars with a variety of tools one really should not operate so close to the carotid. The only time normal people had their collars removed was during their teens as they outgrew them or during emergencies when authorities were there to decide it was the only possible way to save their life. Keys, therefore, were closely monitored and only available at a very limited assortment of places. Mikkel didn’t even know where the keys were kept in the police station; he wasn’t yet trained for that kind of situation.

“Alright, don’t come apart,” Arthur said. “I know where you can get one without too much fuss. I think. Just—stop looking like that.” 

Mikkel stared. If he looked how he felt, he’d hate to find a mirror. “Where?”

“I know someone who might help.” Arthur took a deep breath, fingers tightening round the steering wheel. “At a—hospital.”

Mikkel knew he heard the hitch in his voice, but he didn’t ask. “Are you sure?”

“Honestly? I don’t even know if he still works there. I haven’t talked to him for months. A year, I guess.” His gaze fell, then lifted to Mikkel’s with a weary sort of ferocity. It was the _I’m fresh out of fucks to give, so who knows what you’re about to get_ look, and already something in Mikkel recognized it and started to unfurl. This wolf brought out the worst in him, but maybe that’s what he needed to see this through.

“If it doesn’t work, you’ll find something that does, yeah?” Arthur swung his door open and got out the last cigarette he’d be able to smoke before they switched to Mikkel’s car. “Not like we have anything else to lose.”

Mikkel got his gun from beneath the seat and fingered the trigger pensively. Arthur hadn’t learned that lesson yet. There was always something else.

The hospital did not look like much. It looked like brick siding that wanted to be flooring and grass growing up through cracks in the parking lot. It looked like the natural consequence of street violence. Mikkel could easily imagine a car squealing up in front of the door and someone staggering out with a knife in their gut or a GSW bleeding onto the pavement.

Arthur pointed to a faded sign half-crumpled near the edge of the parking lot. It featured a man and a wolf, both in silhouetted profile, and the message below read _A LIFE IS A LIFE._ It was clear from the angle that the sign had not been reversed into or swiped by a plow, but purposefully assaulted.

Mikkel didn’t voice any of the thoughts in his head except the most pragmatic one: “Do you need me to go in with you?”

Arthur’s eyebrows spiked toward his hair. “What? I’m not going in there.”

“Did you not say you knew somebody who works here?”

“Right, followed by _we haven’t spoken in a year._ And even if we had, fuck that. I’m not going in there. I don’t do hospitals.” Arthur sank lower in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, the picture of petulance. “It doesn’t have to be me. It’s _your_ case.”

This was true. Mikkel suddenly felt laid bare by that statement; how did it seem from the outside, his recent habit of dragging this wolf along? He hadn’t even considered it. He’d needed his help getting around the Warren, but it didn’t have to look like this. Perhaps Arthur could have even recommended a better GPS app that would’ve rendered his accompaniment redundant entirely. Mikkel didn’t _need_ Arthur in his car right now. But—

He wanted him there.

And—

He liked him there.

“You’re wasting time sat here looking stupid,” Arthur pointed out, “while you could be in _there_ looking stupid.”

Then again, perhaps he was just experiencing side effects of dehydration. He made a mental note to check for a vending machine.

“Alright,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “I need a name.”

“Just tell them you need to see Matthew Williams,” Arthur said. There was something new in his voice, or perhaps something absent, but Mikkel couldn’t see his face to guess at it; Arthur was focused on a crow pecking around a garbage bin. “Sound put out and needy, that shouldn’t be hard for you.”

Mikkel shut the door a bit harder than strictly necessary.

Definitely dehydration.

Inside was just as forgettable as the outside. Mikkel didn’t bother putting on a show, just flashed his badge and asked for Nurse Williams. The receptionist didn’t seem at all surprised by the proceedings; a slow blink and a slow response of _down that hall, first door on the left_ and Mikkel was gone from her memory. After the day he’d been having, he actually appreciated the simplicity.

The room he stepped into was actually quite similar to the room Lukas worked out of, which shouldn’t have been such a wonder in retrospect. Lukas was really more of a nurse than a doctor in practise, not that Mikkel would ever say that around him. Despite the exterior, the place where actual medical care was meant to happen was thankfully clean-looking—as was the young man who startled when he saw Mikkel.

“Oh!” He pushed his glasses back up on his nose and tucked some curls behind his ear. “Um, hi. Were you told to come here . . . ?”

Mikkel nodded, again showing his badge. “Detective Densen. Matthew Williams?”

“Yes.” He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. It was the typical scrub material, but covered in frolicking kittens and balls of yarn. His sneakers also had bright pink laces. Mikkel was at once charmed and reminded of how very mid-thirties he was. “Is . . . something wrong?”

On the drive over, Mikkel hadn’t quite decided how much of the story he was willing to divulge, but looking down at the truth of Matthew made him reluctant to say anything that might darken these violet eyes. “I’m in the middle of investigating a case,” Mikkel told him, “and I think you can help me. But you can’t tell anyone about this. Can you promise to keep this secret?”

Matthew clasped his hands together, not twining his fingers but holding his hand like someone else might, if they were there. His mouth flattened a little. “Well, I guess it depends what you want me to do.”

Mikkel appreciated the moral compass, a rarity so near the Warren. _Well, he is human._ Mikkel swallowed that thought and felt it all the way down. “I need you to give me a collar key. I won’t be able to give it back.”

To his credit, Matthew didn’t look immediately alarmed at the thought of participating in illegal activity. He looked down at the floor, then at a poster about venereal diseases, then back at Mikkel. “What happens if I say no?”

Mikkel also appreciated a man who wanted to know all his options. He hadn’t expected to find kinship in a place like this. “Then I’ll have to leave empty-handed and find someone else to help me. You won’t have done anything wrong.”

Matthew rubbed his arm. “Well . . . I’ve never gotten in trouble at work before . . .”

Mikkel felt a bit guilty about it now, because he knew all too well how good a perfect record felt and how soul-destroying the tarnishing of that untouched field of snow could be, but he could hear the clock ticking. Lovino was dead. The killer could be getting away, slipping between his fingers, scorning him . . .

“Arthur Kirkland was the one who suggested you,” Mikkel said, trying to be matter-of-fact about it.

Matthew’s eyes widened, then darkened as his gaze fell. “Oh.”

It felt as bad as Mikkel thought it would. _Why did you send me in here, Bloodhound? What did you do?_

Matthew turned away, jangled a keyring at his belt, and unlocked a drawer in his desk. From here he withdrew a small, official-looking black box. He opened it, and here was the key. Tiny, silver, lined with delicate teeth. They were universal, only changed twice since their original implementation. The collars got smaller with technology and so did the keys. Mikkel had heard vague talks about more advanced designs, but for now, the keys were king.

It didn’t look like a very dangerous weapon, that little thing, but the potential was wicked.

“Take it,” Matthew said. “I’ll leave the box here, it’s my spare. They’re inspected monthly, but I’ll tell the boss I left my drawer open and someone must’ve stole it. I’ll probably just get a smack on the wrist.” He held the key out to Mikkel. “Take it. Tell Arthur we’re even now.”

Mikkel plucked the key from Matthew’s fingers, overly aware how big and clunky his own hands were in comparison. He tried not to care about the words and failed. _Professional curiosity,_ he told himself. “Can I ask how you know him?”

Matthew glanced up from replacing the box in the drawer, a ruefully amused light in his eyes that did more than his uniform ever could to show he _worked_ here. “Are you asking me as a detective, or as a friend?”

“A friend,” Mikkel replied, shocked by how not-weird it felt to say it. If only everyone was this easy to get along with.

“Well, I met him because he used to be friends with my boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend, I mean. Maybe you work with him? Officer Beilschmidt.” Matthew shut the drawer and gave a little tug to ensure it was locked. “But I knew him mostly because he used to be partners with my brother.”

Any thoughts of escape were choked out; he was ensnared. “Wait, you dated Gilbert?” It must have been a long time ago. But what was a _long time_ when you were Matthew’s age—which, by the way, was _not_ Gilbert’s age. “When was that?”

Matthew blinked. “Er, we broke up almost six months ago. Are you friends with Gil?”

 _I thought I was._ Six months, and Gilbert had never mentioned he was going through a break up. And in the six months before that, he was never introduced to Gilbert’s _boyfriend_? Part of Mikkel’s brain, the sensible part, told him that he didn’t know the whole situation, maybe they weren’t dating as a full-time item, maybe they weren’t the sort of couple that integrated into each other’s friend groups, maybe Matthew just wasn’t the type to enjoy sitting around after dark with beer and sports on the TV. (He didn’t really look like the type, in fairness.) But—six months? Half of the time he’d known Gilbert, and he’d never seen any different behavior, couldn’t point out any time that he seemed off or short or anything but his usual self.

_Maybe he just wanted to handle it on his own._

_Maybe he didn’t trust me enough to tell me._

Maybe Gilbert didn’t actually like him. Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe they all were . . .

Mikkel became aware that Matthew was patiently staring at him while he was going through a silent crisis.

“Uh,” he said. “Yes. I am.”

Matthew smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile or a funny smile. “He never told you.”

Mikkel’s mouth made a few different shapes, but none of them produced sound.

Matthew nodded, just once. “That’s why we broke up. He was never good at communication. I mean, I wasn’t very good either, because, I, well, I’m learning to speak up, but he only ever wanted to talk about good things. If something was bothering him, he just—” A high beeping filled the room and Matthew hurried to silence his pager. “I’m sorry, I have to go. I was rambling, anyway. Um, I hope everything . . . works out?”

Mikkel tore himself from his thoughts. His problems with past and present—they could be dealt with later. The future was the important one, the one he was charged with forfending. “Yeah. Right.” He tucked the key into an inner pocket of his jacket, over his heart. “Thank you.”


	5. Chapter 5

Because they had hours to kill before it was time to call Emma back, and because neither Mikkel nor Arthur had eaten since breakfast, and because Arthur was sure as hell not going to whatever black-tie swank tank Mikkel would suggest, they went to the Foxhole. It looked about the same as everything in the Warren, droopy and propped-up and blackened at the edges. Arthur had been here so many times over the past year, he’d forgotten what it was like to see the place with fresh eyes.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Make your disparaging remark.”

Mikkel looked down at him, bewildered. “What?”

So maybe the staring Mikkel had been doing was just because he’d been lost in thought. That was where Arthur didn’t want to be. Matthew’s message still echoed in his head. _Now we’re even._ Even? They could never be that. Even in the statement itself they were not even. Matthew could get seriously reprimanded for the help he’d given them; Arthur had made sure he wouldn’t ever be caught for what he’d done. He’d made such a fucking mess . . . 

“Nothing,” Arthur said, pushing inside. “Forget it.”

Marianne’s politicians had yet to agree on a public smoking ban, and so the pub was hazy with a stale fug that had Mikkel’s nose wrinkling. Memory hit Arthur full in the face: his first night here, a Bloodhound hiding how very daunted he was, the drinks and the whispers and the man who put a cigarette between his lips at the bar and some other things when they got home.

It was an excellent place to get secrets, which is to say, it was an excellent place to get into trouble.

They sat at a table, not the bar. It was early; only the hopeless and the hungry were here yet. Arthur hunched over the table, pushing his fingertips through the grains of salt someone had left behind. A waitress came and took their orders. Arthur doubted he’d be able to eat with all the feelings churning in his stomach.

He didn’t deserve forgiveness from anyone, but especially not from Matthew. He was so clean, so pure. Selfless. He was a nurse, for God’s sake; he helped people all day long. Arthur had never been that good. Even when he tried to make things right, he tainted it. He wondered if Matthew had guessed the details of Arthur’s filthy vengeance all those months ago. _I took care of it._ Matthew hadn’t said a word, just softly shut the door in his face. Arthur had gone home, scrubbed his hands raw, but he’d still been able to smell the death under his fingernails.

_Bloodhound._

“I didn’t know LCOs had partners,” Mikkel said.

Arthur looked up. Mikkel was watching him, sitting stiffly in a chair made for slouching. Some of the regulars were glancing over their shoulders at him; the bartender had definitely taken an interest. Arthur hadn’t considered that a detective so obviously not here on a case might still draw suspicion. Then again, it probably wasn’t the suit. Mikkel wasn’t the only one in here without a collar, but he _was_ the only one not required by law to wear one.

“We don’t,” Arthur said. Their food arrived, fast enough that Arthur wondered how much of it had been sitting round on a hot plate. He poked at the checkered wax paper, unenthusiastic about the fish and chips on top of it. “Why?”

Mikkel made Arthur wait while he took a massive bite of his hamburger. A piece of lettuce fell out of the end facing Arthur and landed on top of the soggy fries.

“You know, it’s rude to eat and talk at the same time,” Arthur told him.

Mikkel chewed.

“It’s a bad sign when the animal thinks you have poor table manners,” Arthur told him.

Mikkel chewed.

“Just because your mouth is so big doesn’t mean you have to stuff it to maximum capacity,” Arthur told him.

Mikkel raised an eyebrow.

“Fucking hell, just put me out of my misery before I do it myself.”

Mikkel swallowed. “The food here is terrible.”

“Well, I’d say you only had one bite, but that bite also comprised ninety percent of the food in this place, so.”

Mikkel set down his complimentary glass of chlorinated water, something almost thoughtful softening the icey blue of his eyes. “You were a policeman.”

_officer down_

Every terrible thing dredged up by the visit to the hospital, interrogating Antonio, the look on Mikkel’s face when he told him Lovino was dead—all of it whirled to fever pitch inside Arthur. For a solid ten seconds, he thought he might throw up. Then he thought, _I need a drink right now._ Then he thought of jumping Mikkel, snatching the collar key from him, freeing himself from this cursed thing around his neck, and running until he found the willow trees . . .

“Kirkland?”

Arthur blinked, twice, and his eyes focused on Mikkel. Watching him. Waiting.

“If—” Arthur cleared the rasp out of his throat. “If you want to be specific, I was a detective when I resigned.”

Mikkel leaned forward, resting an arm on either side of his forgotten plate. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Arthur slouched, arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t realize it was any of your fucking business.”

“Now you sound like a Warren wolf.”

“Perish the thought, Ivory Tower.”

Mikkel opened his mouth, then narrowed his eyes. “I would just appreciate it if someone would tell me something important. Once, in my life. Instead of me having to find out from someone else.” When Arthur just held up a _what are you on about_ hand, he added, “I’m glad I was the one who went in to see Matthew. He told me you used to know Gilbert, which neither of you have talked about, and that he and Gilbert used to date, which he also neglected to mention.”

Arthur shrugged. “Things used to be different. I don’t know what to tell you. Life changes.”

 _And ends._ He pushed his plate away.

“I thought he was my . . .” Mikkel turned his head to watch a pair of men walk into the pub. Arthur watched him watch them. The sun was only just beginning to set, and he already had stubble shadowing his jaw. Something prickled at the back of Arthur’s neck and he realized Mikkel was staring at him again, just as intense as before. “Look, I don’t expect you to tell me your life story, but if I’d known you had training, I would’ve felt a lot better about this.”

“You’ve been dragging me along this whole way regardless,” Arthur said. “Do you really think it matters that I used to be a cop? You didn’t know that, this whole time. If you asked any other officer about this—”

“Don’t.” Mikkel picked up his water but didn’t drink it. “Just don’t.”

Arthur recognized that tone. It was the tone of a man who’d spent days, weeks, months locking up wolves for no better reason than existing. _I’m so tired._ He wondered if Mikkel was just now feeling the exhaustion, or if he’d been hiding it this whole time. Arthur thought this detective was easy to know once you picked away the top layer of skin, but he’d thought that about the Warren, too. True colors only came out when you were cut deep enough to bleed.

They sat and didn’t look at each other. Mikkel drank his water and scowled at it. Arthur scowled at his own without having to taste it first.

“People,” Arthur said, then realized he was talking and it was too late to stop, “generally don’t do things that hurt them.”

Mikkel’s eyes flicked to him.

“Talking is included.”

“Hm.” Mikkel picked up his hamburger again and took an infinitesimally smaller bite than before. “Matthew said your partner was his brother.”

Arthur let his hands fall to the tabletop; a few guys glanced over at the thump. “You had a precious centimeter of room left in that fucking maw, and this is what you do with it. What did I _just_ say.”

Mikkel nodded as he chewed. “Did he transfer to a different jurisdiction?”

“Stop fucking probing.” Arthur kicked a leg, and it was only luck that it belonged to the table and not Mikkel. “I don’t owe you anything. So stop digging for it just to make yourself feel better. Just—”

 _Leave me alone._ The words were there, but he couldn’t get them out. Why? _Why?_ Because he didn’t want that. He couldn’t. What was he going to do, if Mikkel ended this right now? Go home, get drunk, call in sick tomorrow? Or maybe just get drunk here and let the world do with him what it wished. Then he’d be thinking about this case until he got news of an arrest, and what if he didn’t? What if the case went cold? He’d think about it for the rest of his life. _What if I’d stayed? What if I could have done something?_ The last time he’d let a young man die, he had not run from—

“Look.” Arthur stared down at a dark knot in the grain of the table. “He’s dead. Alright? He died a year ago. I resigned. The end.”

Mikkel’s voice was quiet now. “I’m sorry.”

He’d been so many different people, and it exhausted him suddenly. The mentor, the partner, the betrayer. The monster. The creature Sebastião had known, or thought he’d known, for a _please just let me forget_ night. Seeing him again today had reminded Arthur just how close he’d come to crossing over to that side of the street. For him, it was not a road that ended in dealing drugs like Antonio. He would have been destroyed, by someone else if not himself, and no one would know enough to tell his brothers. No one would care. It was a miracle of wisdom or cowardice that had protected him from that fate. He knew he should be glad for it, but . . . he was alive. He was still trying to make this city a safer place, and never before had he been so aware of what a lousy job he was doing. What was the good of any of this? He was alive. Who decided he deserved that?

“Out early tonight, Bloodhound.”

Arthur glanced up. Mikkel was staring just over his head. He turned.

A youngish (Arthur was bad with women-related specifics) she-wolf stood just behind his chair. Her neckline wasn’t low, but he could still see she wasn’t wearing a collar. She stole one of his chips but didn’t eat it. “Is the food not to your liking?”

She was not the waitress. Where had he seen her before . . .

She leaned closer. “Or are you not here to eat?”

“No,” Mikkel said, “we’re here to eat. That’s it.”

Arthur cut his eyes to Mikkel. He seemed more nervous about her proximity than Arthur was. Arthur felt the agitation crackling around her, but he wasn’t acting until she did. Self-defense and assault were two very different things.

“Laura,” he said.

“Liz,” she sneered. 

“Fuck. I knew it was an L, give me credit for that at least.”

“Friends call me Liz. My _name_ is Elizabeta.”

Mikkel’s mood must’ve been worsening by the minute because he interjected, “How many people are we going to come across that you’ve slept with?”

Elizabeta laughed, one big _ha!_ in the manner of _yeah I’d rather die thanks_ and Arthur said, “Don’t be so shallow. Just because I can’t remember someone’s name doesn’t mean we’ve fucked. In this particular case, no, I don’t hate myself quite that much. I detained her, I thought, just a few days ago. And yet here she stands, sans collar. Funny how things work out.”

Elizabeta flicked her hair over her shoulder. “Isn’t it.” She glanced around surreptitiously. “Funny that you’re here so early, too. Among all these uncollared wolves. At the end of a registration period. With a cop.”

Now they had an attentive audience. The two big guys who’d just come in seemed particularly interested. Neither the bartender nor the waitress were anywhere to be seen. Mikkel sat up straighter in his chair. After a moment’s pause, Arthur did as well.

“No, I don’t really find any of that funny,” Arthur told her. “I’ve come here a hundred times. Have I ever detained anyone? You won’t know the answer, but it’s no. I’m not working right now. I never saw any of you. Neither did he.”

Mikkel didn’t nod or shake his head. He wasn’t listening; he was too busy watching the two guys standing up from their bar stools. “Kirkland . . .”

Arthur couldn’t stand up with Elizabeta so close to the back of his chair. He turned sideways in it, addressing all of them. “Look, we’re just trying to enjoy some shitty food in peace, alright? Do any of you have a problem with—”

His throat closed; the rest of his words jumbled, clogging sharply halfway up. Elizabeta had hold of his collar; it dug tight, tight, tight into his windpipe. He could breathe still, mostly, but that wasn’t what this was about. Arthur’s knuckles went white where he gripped the edge of the table.

“I spoke to Sebastião today,” Elizabeta told him, breath warm on his ear. “He told me your nose has been poking places it doesn’t belong.”

Arthur looked to Mikkel. His blue eyes were wide, but in worry, not concern. He knew what Arthur was capable of, or he _thought_ he knew, and his face said _Please, don’t do what you want to do. We can still walk away from this._

Arthur had not been looking to him for permission. His face said _Stay out of the way._

He twisted, grabbed Elizabeta by the neck just as harshly as she held him.

When she bared her teeth in a snarl—teeth that had very recently stopped looking human—he knew she wasn’t interested in warnings. This wasn’t a threat, but a promise.

He heard the cacophony of clothing rips as she shifted, and then all he could see were her snapping jaws as the pair of them crashed into the table. Neither had a hold on the other; the table tipped and they all slammed to the ground, glasses shattering, plates rattling across the floor. He needed his knife, but he had to hold her back with both hands. How simply he’d phrased it just a moment ago: _I detained her._ It had been a close thing, a dangerously close thing. She possessed more savagery than most wolves did. He had thought, at the time, that she reminded him of what Marianne would be like as a wolf.

He hadn’t thought, at the time, that perhaps she was so sure of her abilities because she was working for someone who paid her to be.

Arthur managed to kick Elizabeta off of him and shoved himself to his feet. He spared a glance for Mikkel; he was engaged in a rather tidy boxing match with one of the others, perhaps the only patron with a collar. The rest, however, were all shifting and tangled together, growling and shoulder-mounting as they fought for dominance amongst themselves. The two big guys were bullying the rest, but no leadership was forthcoming. Which meant he had to fix this, before Elizabeta took charge. He’d have to make this quick; he didn’t know how long Mikkel could handle himself.

Elizabeta came at him sidelong, slashing at his legs. He jumped back, but she was faster; she got hold of him messily, and he cursed himself for not throwing out these jeans when they reached this level of tear. At least his hands were free; he grabbed her ear with one hand, twisting hard, and held the blade to that precious, soft space just beneath her jaw. Not enough to break the skin, just enough to burn through her fur.

She jerked in his hands, and her growl was high and mutinous, but she released her hold on his leg.

He could feel it in his chest, in his veins, the howling. This form couldn’t do anything with its power; it was a stranger here, an imposter, a foreigner to this language it could barely speak. And she knew it, too. Her eyes, just as green as they had been in her other skull, met his. Her tail lifted, waved even, a challenge obnoxious in its flagrance.

She was whimpering under him.

Which made no sense, because he had not been pinning her down a moment ago, his knife abandoned on the floor, but he was now. How much time had he lost? He could still hear the others rioting behind him. Elizabeta wasn’t bleeding; he couldn’t smell anything but fear from her, coating the inside of his throat. His lungs were full of the stuff, bitter and intoxicating as any drug. He wasn’t a wolf, he was a monster.

He pushed to his feet. Elizabeta found her paws slowly, uncertainly, and slunk beneath one of the tables.

The other one—no, not the other one. He had a name. A name. _Mikkel_. Mikkel was nowhere to be seen; one of the bigger wolves was scratching at the door. Had he been hurt when he made his escape? Was he coming back? Would Arthur ever see him again?

The rowdiest of the wolves caught sight of him and pushed his current victim away in favor of baring his teeth at Arthur. The others crowded behind him, united by this new enemy.

Arthur picked up his knife.

For once, Arthur left the stereo off when they got in the car.

The sun was setting now; Mikkel produced a pair of black sunglasses from the glove compartment and the sight of him in them— _No. Stop._ But that voice was a lot quieter now, muffled by the wolf prowling inside Arthur’s rib cage. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten so wild. Blacking out? In public? While _sober_?

He hunched his shoulders—there was no escape from the burn of his collar, but he could pretend—and looked out the window instead of at Mikkel. They’d left the Warren behind; this was the pretty city, with well-kept gardens and street lights made to look like old-fashioned lamps. They drove by a middle school soccer game and Arthur watched the kids running; he only spotted one set of bouncing tags among them. He wanted to sigh but didn’t. Was it even still September? Time felt unimportant.

He hated this. This in-between. He wasn’t fully unhinged, but just aware enough to feel how _apart_ he was. He didn’t know what to do about it except wait for his body to remember how to be human. If his mother was— _No. Stop._

That voice was loud and clear as ever.

“I hope the Halfway House won’t be over capacity,” Mikkel remarked, the first words he’d spoken since they left the pub. Voice a bit quiet. Testing the waters.

Arthur had come back to himself with Mikkel holding his arm and the wolves all tucked dolefully downward, their submission absolute. They’d waited in the parking lot until the LCO vans turned up; Arthur hadn’t seen Ivan, thankfully, and barely said anything to the officer who questioned them. No charges would be pressed yet. They had enough to deal with.

Arthur couldn’t forget how tight Mikkel had been holding him, nor how tight he’d been holding his gun in the other hand. Would he have used it? From what he’d seen so far, Arthur doubted it.

“Silver Linings will be fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Are we questioning Liz? That had to be done on Lars’s behalf. I’ve had to deal with bullshit since the Bloodhound thing started going round, but nothing like that.”

Mikkel slowed the car to a halt at a red light and glanced at Arthur. His expression had been on the way to something, but it fell away to nothing. “Your hands.”

Arthur looked down. His hands were still reddened by old scratches and scrapes, but that’s not what Mikkel meant. His fingernails were dark, almost black, and came to ragged points. _God._ No wonder his collar burned so much. He hated this.

“It’ll go away,” he said, and had to clear the rasp painfully from his throat. It hadn’t forgiven him for growling.

“Is that . . .” Mikkel looked at him over his sunglasses. Fresh worry lit his eyes. “Normal?”

_What is normal?_

“I’ve seen it happen to other wolves,” Arthur said. “Never had it firsthand.”

Mikkel just stared at him, uneasy.

“Ha. Get it.” Arthur couldn’t even summon the shitty attitude to make it sarcastic. “Firsthand. Humor.”

The light turned green. Mikkel looked back at the road. “We’ll see what happens with Emma.”

Arthur nodded vaguely and looked back out the window.

Because they still had time to waste before Emma’s call, and because Mikkel had succeeded in getting his suit covered in food as well as torn in three places, they were on their way to Mikkel’s apartment uptown. He hadn’t offered to drop Arthur off along the way. Arthur hadn’t pointed out they could do that.

It did warm him, a little. He might have been strange, inhuman, but Mikkel was still willing to invite him to his home.

The building was soullessly modern, all concrete and glass stacked on top of more concrete and more glass. Every apartment had a balcony, and every balcony had a potted plant. Arthur wondered if symmetry was included in the lease, or if this flimsy street had an HOA to maintain appearances.

Mikkel backed into his numbered parking spot, between two cars just as new and shiny as his own. He put his gun into his jacket and got out of the car without a word. Arthur followed.

Four sets of stairs later, Mikkel unlocked his door and let them in.

It was more or less what Arthur expected, which was a fancy hotel room. White couch, black flatscreen, grey walls. Nothing in the way of decorations, no photos or artwork. The only thing with a bit of personality was the mat just inside the door, which was woven in the pattern of the Danish flag.

“Patriotic,” Arthur remarked. His voice had gone small on him, or maybe it just sounded smaller without the close acoustics of the car interior.

Mikkel looked down at the mat as he took off his shoes. “My mother sent it to me. Housewarming gift.”

He didn’t sound grateful. Arthur left his boots next to the wingtips. _No kicking._

Mikkel stood in the middle of the apartment, near the end of the coffee table. The calm kitchen behind him and the haggard state of his suit and the sure set to his shoulders all contributed to the look of an action hero come home from a long day of ass-kicking. Arthur wondered if he looked like he’d kicked any ass recently. Probably he just looked tired . . .

“Well.” Mikkel half-lifted a hand to gesture in the couch’s general direction. “Make yourself at home, I guess. I’m going to have a shower. All I can smell are cigarettes and ketchup.”

“Okay,” Arthur said.

Mikkel gave him a weird look before vanishing behind a grey wall.

Arthur waited until he heard the water, then began exploring. He quietly explored the cupboards—full of canned soup and jars of white powdery stuff that was apparently _100% organic protein for everyday performance_ if the very masculine label was to be believed—and the fridge, which had milk and butter and beer and bacon. _The four food groups._ Arthur considered the beer, but closed the door without taking any. He didn’t feel like drinking or smoking, his usual distractions. He felt, he realized, like shifting.

He couldn’t. It didn’t matter that Mikkel had a key. _Just a few minutes, locked in the bathroom or something . . ._ No. Even if he didn’t get spooked by being in this unfamiliar place where he couldn’t see the sky, Mikkel didn’t know how to handle a wolf. Would Arthur have the wherewithal to come back to himself after a few minutes? With this case on his mind and these memories in his heart and Elizabeta’s breath on his ear?

It wasn’t worth the risk.

So he just pushed himself up onto one of the stools at the island—the white couch did nothing but unnerve him, plus his leg was bloody—and checked his phone like a good millennial. No calls, no texts. He locked the phone and looked at his reflection in the blank screen instead. Was this why Mikkel had been staring at him? He _did_ look different, he thought, just not in any particular way. There was no one thing he could point out; it was like comparing a photograph of yourself to what you looked like in the mirror. It was still him, just . . . different.

He wondered if this was what he looked like on Matthew’s doorstep.

He closed his eyes. Another memory came, and he let it: stumbling on all-fours, his hands and knees filthy, recognizing where he was but not what he was. He was only nine, and he cried even when she hugged him. _Shh, shh, it’s alright. You’re still Arthur. It’s alright, love. It’s just part of growing up._ He’d been a late bloomer in everything else, but he’d shifted first out of all his brothers. When they fought with him, stole his books, riled him just for the sake of it—he felt the wolf bristling under his skin. His temper became a balancing act until finally she cupped his face in soft hands. _Close your eyes. Breathe. You don’t have to fight it. It’s just you. Don’t be afraid of yourself. Another deep breath . . ._

He heaved a long, dark sigh.

“You look better.”

Arthur opened his eyes but otherwise hid how Mikkel had startled him; without the shoes, he was surprisingly light-footed. Or maybe he’d been working at sneakiness. He was fresh now, skin still glowing with warmth from the shower, hair still damp and pushed back on his head. This was the first time Arthur had seen him without his suit jacket. His shoulders made for a fine collaboration with his chest.

Mikkel glanced up from tying his tie, one eyebrow quirked.

 _Bastard._ “You do, too,” Arthur said. “You clean up nice.”

“Ha,” Mikkel told him, pulling the knot tight, “ha.”

Arthur wasn’t joking, but he didn’t correct him. He just dropped down from the stool and put his phone back in his pocket. His hands hurt—what else was new—but his fingernails were translucent again. He supposed he felt less crisis-y overall, but he didn’t want to be completely calm; a little bit of crisis got the bills paid on time, and they had real shit to worry about now.

Mikkel must have misinterpreted his silence, because when he spoke it was the same hushed, careful tone he used in the car. “Does it hurt? Shifting?”

Arthur noted how hesitantly the word _shifting_ fell from his tongue, like a child quoting a curse word in front of their parents. He knew there were human kids raised to fear and dislike wolves—a few of them worked at the police station—but he’d never met someone so undecided about it. Usually people were for or against, not perched precariously on the fence like Mikkel. _You’re too big to stay there long,_ he thought. _You’ll tip and fall without much help._

The help wouldn’t come from Arthur. Marianne was the activist, not him.

“Yes,” Arthur replied. “But it hurts more not doing it.”

Mikkel’s brow furrowed in something like curiosity, but then he was looking at his watch. “I called Emma while I was changing.”

Arthur felt slightly betrayed that Mikkel hadn’t waited to do it where he could hear. “Kinky.”

“She said she would meet us at Michelle’s. Do you know what that is?”

“Yeah. It’s a café. In the Warren.”

Mikkel nodded slowly.

“What?”

Mikkel shrugged, picking up his suit coat from where he’d draped it over the couch. “It’s just strange to imagine wolves at a café. Warren wolves, especially.”

“Let’s maybe stop with the remarks about Warren wolves, Nordick.” Arthur paused. “That one’s not as good, is it? With the K on the end, did you—”

“Yes, I got it,” Mikkel said dryly. “It must be a sign that you’re running out.”

“Oh, I hope not, that would be a shame. Then I might have to call you _Detective Densen_ , and life’s too short for that.”

Mikkel gave Arthur a harassed look and flicked off the lights as they walked out of the apartment. “I’m going to come up with one for you.”

Arthur felt himself smirking. “Are you really? Such suspense. When shall I expect it to arrive?”

Mikkel closed the door. “You’ll just have to wait for it.”

Michelle’s was one of the more reputable places the Warren had to offer, although with all this going on Arthur wouldn’t be surprised to learn she had drugs under the floorboards or a side business selling bodies. She ran the place with her pack: she did the roasting and baking and her four or five or six dark-haired children or nieces or cousins did everything else. Arthur had only been to the place once, to deliver a warning notice for their registration. As far as he knew, Michelle had never been detained. She’d even smiled when he talked to her that day; a good person, as far as he could tell, which was probably why he’d stayed away.

They didn’t linger inside long, because the teenager behind the counter told them, “Oh, your table is waiting for you outside. She already ordered for you. She said she knew what you wanted.”

Despite himself, Arthur felt foreboding prickle in the small of his back.

Mikkel glanced down at him.

“How exciting,” Arthur said, extra glib just to be safe.

Out they went. It was the usual quaint café affair, a cluster of little two-chair tables beneath striped umbrellas and a dusty chalkboard leant against the wall describing things far too milky to interest Arthur. This time of day, with the shadows growing by the second and the chill filling in the blanks, only one table had an occupant. She was facing them. Arthur didn’t recognize her, but she wasn’t anything special. A pretty girl with her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee.

When she saw them seeing her, she smiled, and now he understood. She had the sort of smile that made you want to fetch it back when it was gone, no matter what you had to do. A _you want to keep me happy, don’t you?_ smile. A _I don’t think you’d like it very much if I was unhappy_ smile.

“The key,” she said, holding out her hand.

Mikkel gave it to her cautiously. Arthur wouldn’t have done it straight away, but there was no benefit to arguing in front of this woman.

She inspected it closely from all angles, tested it against her nails, tapped it on the tabletop, then placed it into her purse. “Thank you. Have a seat.”

Mikkel sat. Arthur pulled up a chair from one of the other tables and straddled it backward.

Emma pushed two other cups of coffee toward them. “Lars will appreciate this.”

Mikkel sipped his coffee. Arthur sniffed at his suspiciously.

“It isn’t poisoned,” Emma assured him.

“Does it have cream in it?”

“Two cream, one sugar.”

Arthur pushed the cup to the edge of the table. “I’d rather the poison.”

“Kirkland,” Mikkel muttered chidingly.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but he kept his mouth shut. If Mikkel wanted this to be his noire story, let him have it. _And someone is dead. And people are attacking you._ So maybe a bit of seriousness wouldn’t be out of place.

“Do you know anything at all about Lovino Vargas’s death or disappearance?” Mikkel asked.

Emma shook her head. “I’m sorry, but no. I wish I could be more helpful, Detective.”

“Do you have dealings with Antonio and Sebastião?”

“They are involved in other parts of Lars’s business,” Emma replied. “I’m only in charge of making sure wolves who need help don’t have to spend time in that Halfway House. When they can’t pay for their tags, they call me. I organize everything, I do the calls, I do the payment plans. It’s Lars’s money, but in truth it is my business.”

Something complicated touched Mikkel’s mouth. “Did you recently bail out Antonio?”

“We’ve recently bailed out many wolves,” Emma said. “It happens at the end of every registration period, and it only gets worse with each year.”

That’s how Elizabeta was bailed out, then. But she’d had no collar on . . . Were they bailing out these wolves and leaving them to their own devices, with nothing but a _payment plan_ —and, no doubt, interest building on it every day they couldn’t find the money? How was that helping anyone?

“What does Liz’s payment plan look like?” Arthur asked.

Mikkel shot him a look, but let his gaze slide back to Emma.

“It wouldn’t be right to share confidential information without her permission—”

“It also wouldn’t be right to steal a key and give it to someone like you,” Arthur told her. “And, personally, I don’t think it would be very right to have someone jumped, in a public place, just because we’re trying to find out who murdered a kid.” He leant back on his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “But both of those things happened today, so it seems the precedent has been set.”

Emma regarded him for a long moment. It was quite impressive how cold such a warm face could become. “So it has. Elizabeta also works for Lars on his . . . other projects. He uses people like her when he needs a more hands-on approach.”

“Hands on my neck, you mean.”

Emma’s shoulders lifted slightly. “As I said, I’m not involved. But I’m sure we both know that wolves can sometimes get a little carried away. I apologize if that was the case.”

“Does Lars know we’re here right now?” Mikkel demanded. “What did he want out of sending them to hurt us? Does he want us dead?”

“Dead? No, I don’t think so. My brother isn’t a killer.” Emma’s sculpted eyebrows pulled together. “He knows we’re here because I told him this meeting was happening. But I didn’t know anyone was being sent after you— _if_ that is even what happened. Perhaps someone else sent Elizabeta.”

 _I’ve been talking to Sebastião_ , she’d said. Arthur narrowed his eyes.

“Or perhaps it happened on his behalf, not by his word,” Emma offered. “He has done favors for many, many people in the Warren. They might feel protective of him. The wolves of the Warren need my brother.” She smiled again, the warmth returning effortlessly. “And me.”

Mikkel shook his head a little. “Then I’m back to where I was when I first called you. I need to speak to Lars.”

Her smile wrinkled prettily, rueful. “I’m sorry, but he’s out of town.”

Arthur had been balancing his ankle on a curved leg of the table, but his boot thumped to the ground now. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

She just levelled her smile on him, a she-wolf with lipstick instead of fangs. In the fading sunlight, her mouth looked dark as blood. He’d thought Elizabeta was the worst, but this one was a whole other species.

Arthur could feel the tension radiating from Mikkel. “When will he be back?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know.” She took some money from her purse and left it on the table. “I’m afraid I have to go, I have more meetings with wolves who actually need my help.” She gave Arthur one last smile. “It was nice to finally meet you in person, Bloodhound. A face to a name.”

“Yeah,” Arthur said, and felt stupid doing it, but he couldn’t think of anything clever to say. She’d given them next to nothing, and the day was over, and he’d still barely eaten, and he’d forgotten how addictive and destroying the hunt for answers could be. And the lipstick just reminded him of Marianne, which was the cherry on top to the storm in his stomach.

In the time it took Emma to step from their table to the road, a car came roaring round the corner and stopped just long enough to let her in. Then they were gone.

Mikkel slammed his hand down on the table hard enough that all the cups rattled on their little saucers. “Goddamn it. I don’t even know why I’m surprised.”

Arthur watched the coffee dance in his cup. “What did we learn?”

“She either doesn’t know anything, or she’s lying. I think I believe that she’s in the dark about most of the details. And Lars is paying wolves to rough people up, even when they’re cops. And apparently he’s a hero in the Warren, or he thinks he is. A hero, not a killer.”

_I dunno, I guess I just wanted to be a hero—_

Arthur dug his fingernails into his palms. “Who is absolutely not out of town.”

“I can’t believe she said that. God. Do I look like an idiot?” Mikkel raked fingers through his hair. “Rhetorical question.”

“You don’t.”

Mikkel glanced at him.

“You look like you’re pissed off,” Arthur told him. “And you’re sick of all this shit. And it’s about time somebody told you the truth.”

Mikkel’s eyes looked a bit like they had after he’d beaten the hell out of Arthur’s car, but his mouth still had that self-deprecating slant. “Do I look like someone who can solve this case?”

Arthur considered him. He looked like an action figure, the guy who saved the day, got the girl, all that. He doubted himself, but he wasn’t meek; he had too much ferocity for that. Arthur knew how it felt to wear that suit and try to live up to the image everyone else saw. He wasn’t _bad_ at it. His eyes were sharp and his heart was in the right place and he—no, he wasn’t an idiot.

Arthur opened his mouth to tell him _it’s not you, maybe it’s just this case, this is bigger than anything I’ve ever worked on, it’s almost overwhelming, I can’t even imagine how long this has been going on, this is seriously dangerous, who knows how many people are involved, and maybe what we’re uncovering here doesn’t have anything to do with Lovino, maybe we should just leave it, I know it’s weird coming from me, but I’ve seen rock bottom and I just think maybe this could be a time to let sleeping dogs—_

Mikkel’s phone rang. He checked the screen, then put it to his ear and smiled. “Hello?”

Arthur stared. Who was this creature? What was that smile? All of him was abruptly too much, too much effort put into his cordial voice, too many teeth in his smile, too much strain even in the way he sat. Why was he adjusting his tie for a phone call? Who the hell was that important?

“I was just thinking about calling you,” Mikkel said in that bizarre, grand voice, like he was the host of a game show. “Are you still at work? I’m, well, it’s a long story, but . . .”

Arthur watched the veneer crumble, a sickening slow-motion reverse of the transformation he’d just seen. Mikkel’s smile fell and his eyes lost their sparkle. His shoulders went limp. Arthur wasn’t even sure he was breathing. From one hundred to less than nothing, with only a few words?

“I . . . Yes. I’m on my way. It’s—yes.” He cupped the phone to his face with both hands. His voice came low, a hollow whisper. “I’ll find him. I promise you.”

Cold crept into Arthur’s heart.

Mikkel put down his phone and looked at him, haunted. “Emil Bondevik is missing.”


	6. Chapter 6

The sun was just ducking behind the horizon when Mikkel and Arthur got to Lukas’s house. Mikkel had never been here before, but he couldn’t take in any of the details. Nothing meant anything. Worthless adrenaline was pumping through him; he had to work to keep his hands from shaking. Emil, Lukas’s younger brother, was missing—vanished away in the evening just like Lovino was. Supposed to come home, didn’t. _And I was supposed to save him. Didn’t._

Mikkel was already on the road toward failure again, but he couldn’t get his bearings long enough to run in the other direction.

Lukas led them to Emil’s bedroom and stood with his arms around his middle. Just that little gesture made Mikkel’s own arms ache; he so, so wanted to wrap them around Lukas, offer him some form of solace, shield him from the terrible reality of all this. But it was off-limits. Lukas hadn’t even met his gaze yet. When Mikkel introduced Arthur at the door, Lukas hadn’t shown any sign of hearing.

Arthur wandered across the bedroom, peering at the collection of sticky notes on the desk. Everything was more cluttered than Lovino’s room, but then again this room was half that size and there was no maid in this house.

“Does he have a phone?” Mikkel asked.

Lukas shook his head. “He had one, but I confiscated it. He’s been acting out ever since he started high school.”

His voice hardened a little there, so perhaps he wasn’t as close to shattering as Mikkel had thought. His eyes seemed so pale all of a sudden, like his sadness had leached all of their color. He was so beautiful, even in sorrow, and it shamed Mikkel just as much as it taunted him.

“This is his laptop?” Arthur asked, holding up a device that seemed too small to even be real. Mikkel would smash three keys at a time with his clunky fingers.

“They provide them at the school,” Lukas said. “So I couldn’t take it away. He was supposed to be grounded. I couldn’t believe it when I came home and he wasn’t here.”

 _Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been very friendly, maybe it’s just that he was stressed about his brother._ Mikkel gave him a sympathetic look. “It can’t be easy, having to raise him yourself like this . . .”

Arthur rolled his eyes when he thought no one was looking. “Do you think he has the password written somewhere?”

Lukas crossed the room and bent to type it in. Mikkel enjoyed the view, then scolded himself for it. Arthur didn’t step back from Lukas despite the lack of space between them, just simmered until Lukas had moved away to sit on the edge of the bed.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “How do you know his password?”

Lukas gave him a bewildered look. “I know all of his passwords. He’s only sixteen.”

Arthur stared at him, then gave Mikkel an incredulous look and turned back to the laptop with disdain sloughing off his shoulders. “What restrictions do you have on this, then?”

“He’s only allowed to use it for schoolwork,” Lukas replied. “No streaming, no chatting. So you won’t find anything on it. If I thought there was anything relevant on it, I would have already looked. Obviously.”

 _“Obviously,”_ Arthur echoed under his breath, prim and nasty.

Mikkel watched him type surprisingly deftly—he didn’t seem like the technological type, but what did he know about Arthur Kirkland—before turning back to Lukas. “You’re certain he ran away?”

Lukas lifted both hands. “The security system would have gone off if anyone else had tried to get in or out. Emil and I are the only ones who know the code. So he left by his own choice. After that . . .” His gaze fell and the sadness folded over him again. Mikkel couldn’t believe his eyes at first, but yes: he was actually tearing up.

Lukas Bondevik, unflappable doctor and no-nonsense problem-solver, was crying.

Mikkel sat beside him at once. “Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he murmured. Gingerly, he put an arm around Lukas’s shoulders—and, to his shock, Lukas leaned into him and shuddered through a silent sob. “It’s okay. You’ve been trying your hardest, but there’s only so much one person can do. You couldn’t lock him up and throw away the key. You did what you could, so don’t blame yourself for this.”

Lukas sniffled, looked up at Mikkel. With his eyes reddened by his tears, he looked so alive, more alive than Mikkel had ever seen him. More _human_ than Mikkel had ever seen him. What a tragedy it was that only something like this could bring out feeling so intense in Lukas.

Or maybe that was normal. Maybe he was right to hide the feelings that surged inside him, like Gilbert did. Was that normal? Was this what normal people did?

“I’m sorry,” Lukas said, and dabbed at his eyes with the end of his sleeve. “Everything is happening at once. I’ve been so caught up with the new work we’re doing . . . I didn’t think anything like this would ever happen to me.”

Mikkel shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize. You have every right to be upset.”

Lukas met his gaze and, for the first time, actually looked grateful.

“Who’s Li?” Arthur asked suddenly.

Lukas broke away from Mikkel. “A friend of Emil. From school. Why?”

“He was talking to him before he left.”

“What? How?” Lukas stood up. Mikkel silently lamented the loss of him, then joined him at Arthur’s back.

“I don’t know. They found a way to instant message. Teenagers generally do. The most recent message is Li saying _I can’t tonight_ , but Emil didn’t respond.” He scrolled, then scrolled some more. “God, and people think I never shut up.”

“I already called Li’s father,” Lukas protested. “I did that before I reported Emil missing. He said Li was home and had no knowledge of anything.”

“So they’d planned on going somewhere together,” Arthur said. “But Li didn’t follow through.”

“Definite possibility,” Mikkel agreed, then added when Lukas looked sharply at him, “I hope that’s the case, for Emil’s sake.”

“Hm.” Lukas crossed his arms over his chest. “It doesn’t say anything about where they were going?”

“Considering he knows you snoop through his stuff, I doubt it.”

Lukas bristled. “I do not _snoop._ He’s a child. His job is to go to school and stay out of trouble. My job is to worry about everything else. Privacy is a right that has to be earned.”

Arthur stood up. Mikkel stepped back. Lukas did not.

“Yeah,” Arthur said. “Whatever you say. You’re the big brother. Li’s place?”

It took Mikkel a moment to realize this was a question for him. “Yes.”

It was late, but that didn’t matter. Lovino had disappeared sometime in the night. His body had turned up a little over a day later. So, if this case was following the same course as Lovino’s, then they had thirty-two hours at the most to find out who was behind it.

Mikkel’s heart dropped to the bottom of his rib cage.

Arthur was watching him, and Mikkel could see the dread darkening eyes.

“Yes,” he said again. “We should go. Quickly.” He turned to Lukas. “If you get anything at all—”

“I’ll call you right away,” Lukas finished.

 _Obviously,_ Arthur mouthed.

Mikkel herded him out, but paused when Lukas said his name. He glanced back.

“I just wanted to say.” Lukas stood in the doorway, soft in the golden light from Emil’s desk lamp. His voice was still a little nasal, but his face was dry. “Thank you. And . . . I’m glad it’s you.”

_Oh._

Mikkel just felt his smile start to spread before Arthur grabbed his wrist. “Does _quickly_ mean something else in Scandinavia? Move your arse!” and Mikkel had to look away from Lukas so he wouldn’t break his neck on the stairs.

He was solving this case. Failure was no longer an option.

Li’s house sat on the same curved street as the Vargas estate, just one of many jewels in the crown. The same football field of a yard stretched out in front of the mansion, but this one was a sculpted garden encircling a marble fountain. It should have been too dark to make out any of these details, but happily some groundskeeper had placed several ground lights throughout the yard and so everything was lit like a top prize showcase.

Mikkel had to leave the car at the gate and show his ID and badge to the security guard—Arthur bared his teeth when the flashlight beam shone in his face—before they were allowed to go to the door. While they waited on the doorstep, Mikkel saw Arthur scowling at the plants edging the path. He glanced, but all he could see were shadowy leaves. “What—”

The door opened to an elegant raven-haired man in a silk housecoat. “I assume you’re here to speak to my son?”

Mikkel inclined his head. “Yao Wang?”

His impassive face, just as sculpted as the lawn despite the hour, did not change. “Speaking.”

Arthur gave the faintest scoff. Mikkel wanted to scold him, but Yao was too watchful even for subtlety. “We think he and Emil might have been planning to sneak out tonight, but Emil ended up going by himself.”

Yao’s brow furrowed only slightly. “My son wouldn’t sneak out. He’s never been involved in any bad behavior. I wouldn’t stand for it.”

“I understand,” Mikkel said, “but we still have to speak to him.”

“Now,” Arthur added firmly.

Yao’s dark gaze flicked to him. “I didn’t realize we had more than one wolf working in our district. I had thought you resigned some months ago.”

Mikkel stared between them, taken aback that anyone would care enough about lycans to track their employment. “This isn’t really relevant. Mr. Kirkland is assisting with the details of this case—”

“The details? So you suspect the kidnapper is a wolf?” Yao’s voice lowered. “I understand Representative Vargas’s son is missing, as well. Are we to believe they are connected?”

Mikkel took a deep breath. Yao’s voice was too much like his mother’s, picking and pecking until he was too scattered to do anything but shout. “I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation. I just need to speak to your son. Please.”

“. . . Very well.” Yao moved aside, but held up a hand when Arthur tried to come in. “But he stays outside.”

If Arthur had been simmering at Lukas, he was positively boiling now. Mikkel spoke before he could open his mouth: “Why? I assure you Mr. Kirkland is held to the same standard I am; everything your son says will be confidential unless it must be revealed to support the case.”

“I don’t need a reason, do I?” Yao asked innocently. “You have no warrant to come into my home, so I could turn away the both of you, correct?”

Now Mikkel saw why Arthur sneered whenever he ended questions with _correct?_

Mikkel looked to Arthur. He and Yao were looking at each other just shy of glaring; Mikkel was surprised the chill evening air didn’t heat up around them. Then Arthur turned on his heel. “Whatever. Go on, Densen. _I’ll wait._ ”

Yao smiled like the cat with the cream. Mikkel tried to send an apologetic look to Arthur, but his back was not in the receiving mood.

Yao led Mikkel to a sitting room that looked more like a museum piece than a place real people lived. Mikkel on a tiny sofa and nearly sank through to the floor; his knees could’ve knocked his chin. Yao’s smile seemed a bit bland after that, but he just said, “Li will be down in a moment. Have him come up for me if you need me for anything else. Good night, Detective.”

Away he went, a waft of some nameless perfume in his wake.

Mikkel sat in this dollhouse room and wondered if Gilbert had ever been turned away like that, just because of the collar on his neck. He’d never said anything like that affected him; the most anger Mikkel had ever seen out of him was the day a couple rookies thought it would be funny to put a _Beware of Dog_ sign on Gilbert’s locker. But even then, Gilbert hadn’t said a word, just ripped the sign down and threw it out. Still, Mikkel could remember the flex of his jaw, the cold lack of humor in those usually good-natured eyes. The same look he’d just seen in Arthur’s eyes.

Mikkel felt it, the second-hand anger at the injustice of it. It wasn’t their fault they were wolves. What good was it in treating them any different? Mikkel had grown up listening to the rhetoric from his parents, so he’d lived his life doing his best to avoid the topic, ignore that some people had tags jangling on their necks. And it had worked out pretty well for him. Now he was living in this city, things were a little harder, with the Warren and its high percentage of impoverished wolves . . . and now this whole thing with Lars. Mikkel wasn’t sure if it was connected to the disappearances or not, but he almost hoped it was. This was his first time doing any amount of work in the Warren, and he had his claws in. He was finally seeing the size of the mess, and he wanted to do a deep clean.

Even if Lovino hadn’t died and Lukas’s brother hadn’t gone missing and Lars had not made this personal by having them _attacked_ in that dive—even if it hadn’t been made personal, it would still be quite the story to tell when he was being considered for promotion to chief.

 _Tick-tock, tick-tock_ , said the analog clock on the wall.

Mikkel stood up when Li walked in, force of habit. Li was a smaller version of Yao, rounder with youth and hair shorn close to his head. The oversize shirt he wore for a pajama top was an obvious reference to something Mikkel was comfortable having never heard of.

“Detective Densen,” he said by way of introduction. Li didn’t even come near enough for a handshake, so Mikkel didn’t bother offering. “I just have a few questions for you about Emil. He’s your friend, right?”

Li sat down, hands clasped around a huge smartphone in his lap. “Yeah.”

Mikkel wondered if Li was reluctant to meet his gaze because he was guilty or because he was sixteen. “Did you have plans to go out tonight?”

“No.”

“When you sent him a message saying you couldn’t tonight, what were you referring to?”

“We were just doing a thing.” Li shrugged. “A homework thing.”

“Did you know that he had his phone taken away? And he wasn’t supposed to be messaging anyone?”

“Yeah. His brother is really strict.” Li fiddled with his phone case. “But I can’t just _not_ talk to him. He’s, like, my best friend.”

 _Best friend._ Gilbert seemed to think he could just _not_ talk to Mikkel about serious things, things that actually mattered. Maybe Mikkel just didn’t know what best friendship felt like. It wasn’t like he had an abundance of experience in the field.

“Alright.” Mikkel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I need to be completely serious with you. I’m not going to talk to you like you’re a child. Emil could be in danger right now. He could die.”

Li finally looked at him, eyes wide.

“I know he’s your best friend, so you probably want to cover for him. I understand how important secrets and promises are. But if you know anything at all about where he might be going tonight, you need to tell me.” The fractures in Mikkel’s heart hardened, froze shut, sealed with new ice. “Because if your best friend dies tonight, you’ll think for the rest of your life that you could’ve done something to prevent it.”

Li’s bow of a mouth parted, but no sound came out. His eyes seemed depthless, holes bored straight through to the horror Mikkel had put into his head. For a brief moment, Mikkel wondered if he’d just scarred this kid for life.

Then Li said, all in a rush, “It’s the afterparty. We never go to the party-party, but we go to the afterparty. Lots of people go. From school, I mean. From class. Not poor people, I mean—the only poor ones there are the wolves, but some of them get money. I was going to go with him! We hardly ever go without, like, a chaperone—that’s just what we call it, it’s a joke. Like on field trips. But my dad wouldn’t let me out of the house, because of what happened to Lovino. He used to go to the afterparties, too . . .”

Mikkel had to hold up his hands. “Woah, woah. Slow down. Whose party?”

Li made a soft, half-frustrated sound. “Well, the _party_ is at Sebastião’s place. His vibe is gross so we skip that. Mostly it’s just a bunch of stoners. Like, old people. Like, some of them are as old as my dad.”

“Then what is the afterparty? Where is it?”

“They’re all different places. You have to get invited to the afterparty. Usually you have to know a guy who knows a guy, totally sketch, but we get in because we pay. It’s, like, a pass. It’s not very much money. It’s _my_ money, too, out of my allowance.”

In a place like this, Mikkel could only imagine what Li’s allowance looked like. It was probably on a credit card. “How do you know where the parties will be?”

Li flapped his phone at him. “Somebody texts me the info and I RVSP or whatever. Tonight it’s . . .” He fell silent, shrinking back into himself a bit and looking uncertainly at Mikkel. “It’s supposed to be a secret. Am I safe?”

 _Yes_ leapt to Mikkel’s mouth, but Lovino’s lifeless face flashed in his memory. “From what?”

“The boss wolf guy.” Li checked his phone, just a split second of his attention, as if that in itself was soothing. “Lars.”

Nothing leapt to Mikkel’s mouth this time. In fact, he had to work to get the words out. “You know where Lars will be tonight?”

Li chewed on his bottom lip. “Yeah. But he’s, like, the real deal. You don’t mess with him. He only talked to me once and I almost threw up on him. I mean, I was kinda drunk, but mostly because he’s so scary.” He glanced toward the doorway. “And I have a little sister . . .”

Mikkel held a hand over his heart. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you or your family. I’ll have all of you moved to a safehouse tonight.”

Li’s eyes widened like he was surprised his concerns were being taken seriously. “Well. Okay. The afterparty’s in the Warren. It used to be a fitness centre, I guess. They always just call it _the gym._ ”

Hopefully Arthur would know it. “How were you going to get there?”

“We usually just get a ride with the other kids. Like, Lovino used to drive us sometimes. But we were just gonna get a taxi this time. So I don’t know how Emil did it. Maybe he used an app? On his laptop?”

Downloaded and deleted before they even knew to check. Would there be some sort of history somewhere to show what Emil had done on the app? Mikkel wasn’t anywhere close to knowledgeable when it came to this stuff, but it didn’t matter. Ten chances to one, Emil was at this afterparty right now. _We can get him._

Mikkel stood up. “Thank you for cooperating. You’ve been very helpful, Li. You should be—proud of yourself.”

If Li heard the slight stumble, he didn’t show it. He just stood and walked backward to the door. “Can I go back to my room now?”

“Yes. I’ll have officers come to escort you somewhere safe for the time being. Okay?”

“Okay.” Li hesitated in the doorway. “Do you think you could maybe not tell him I told you all this stuff? He’ll hate me if he finds out. Actually, if any of the kids at school find out I’m the one who told a cop about the afterparties . . .” He shook his head. “It’s gonna fucking suck.”

Mikkel stared at him probably too long before he said, “Yeah. I’ll keep it vague.”

Li smiled. “Cool. Thanks.”

He walked away. Mikkel heard the button sound effects of his keyboard fading up the stairs.

Mikkel found Arthur picking flowers.

Well, _picking flowers_ was a rather poetic way of putting it, but not strictly untrue. Arthur was removing plants from the ground, but with graceless yanks, shoulders arched and tense with vengeance. Mikkel stood close enough that Arthur knew he was there, but neither of them said anything. Mikkel couldn’t stop seeing that shadow pass over Arthur’s eyes when Yao told him he wasn’t welcome in his home. What could he say to make that better? Him, of all people?

Mikkel knew he should have said _We have to go._ And he maybe should’ve pointed out that this was vandalism. But he just stood and watched Arthur pull up plant after plant. All identical, Mikkel noted as the leafy pile grew on the grass. He understood in the split second before Arthur spoke.

“Wolfsbane.” Arthur tore one last stalk from the ground, shaking damp earth from its roots before tossing it down with disgust. He stood up straight, brushed his hands on his thighs and winced. “Fucking things. At least it doesn't smell."

Mikkel looked at the angry red skin on his palms. “Are you okay?”

“I didn’t touch the roots. I’ll be fine. The rash’ll go away if I keep from scratching it.” He went to put his hands into his pockets, then thought better of it. He jerked his chin at the house. “Get what you wanted?”

Mikkel nodded. “He told me where Lars is. And where Emil was going. Does an afterparty at the gym ring any bells?”

“Maybe.” Arthur kicked the wolfsbane plants. “Are you going to write them up for this?”

“Yeah. Yes. Of course.” He hadn’t even thought of it. He was too distracted by Lars and Emil and Lukas’s eyes and the threats whispering in the shadows. “I’ll sort it out after all this is finished. For now, I have to call and have them brought to a safehouse.”

Arthur stared at him. “You’re putting them in a safehouse?”

Mikkel stared back. “Yes. Lars is obviously dangerous. Li told me sensitive information. We have no way of knowing how good Lars’s hearing is. Better safe than sorry.”

Arthur’s gaze lingered on him, bored into him, then flicked away as he shook his head. “Right. As if a wolf’s going to storm this place and shoot up some rich humans in their dressing gowns. Whatever, Densen.”

Mikkel followed after him. “What do you mean? One human has already died from all this.”

Arthur whirled to walk backward down the path. He looked otherworldly, half-lit by the golden ground lights. “Would you care this much if it was a wolf who’d died?”

Mikkel rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t. Of course I would care. A life—”

“—is a life,” Arthur finished snidely. “Yeah. Not to His fucking Majesty in there. Not to your damsel in distress.”

It took Mikkel a second too long.

“I saw how he looked at me. Do you think I’m an idiot? I’m a _wolf._ I could feel his fucking eyes on me. And I saw how _you_ looked at him. Remind me to buy a dribble bib for the next time we talk to him.”

Whatever excitement he’d felt a minute ago had combusted and burned only as anger now. “Yes, I like Lukas. Is that a crime? To like someone? To care about something? To not want to live by myself in a shithole apartment drinking myself to sleep on my days off?”

Arthur stopped and crowded close, poking a righteous finger into Mikkel’s sternum. “Go fuck yourself. If you haven’t learned yet that caring about people just fucks you over, then by all means. Waste time tripping over yourself to kiss Bondevik’s ass. You don’t even _talk_ like you when he’s around, for God’s sake. You really think you’ll be happy with—” He held up his hands. “You know what? Whatever. It’s your life, you go ahead and ruin it. Not my problem.”

Mikkel watched him walk back to the car, speechless and smarting. He was still on fire, but he had no words to get it out. There was nothing around he could hit, and besides—the security guard was leant against the gate, watching with an eyebrow raised. Mikkel gave a stiff nod and got back into his car. A moment later, Arthur fell into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

Mikkel listened to both of them breathing. He fisted his hands, hard, then slowly let his fingers release. He couldn’t think; he was completely scattered now. Was he just this bad at reading people? He’d thought he at least knew where he stood with the Bloodhound, but apparently not. Why did he _care_? _Is he jealous?_ Jealous not even of Lukas, but of the fact that Mikkel believed he deserved to be with someone, believed it was possible to find happiness and earn self-worth. _I’ll always be in a better place than you, wolf,_ he thought, _because I’m at least trying to achieve something. You’re just throwing yourself away._

He waited until he could be sure his voice wouldn’t be ragged, then asked, “Do you know where it is?”

He would’ve liked the question to be flatter, but it wasn’t too bad.

Arthur glared out the side window. All he gave was a grunt.

Mikkel let a long breath slowly out his nose. “You don’t have to come—”

“And have you getting yourself killed on my conscience?” Arthur crossed his arms tightly over his chest. His voice dropped low, sorrow rasping through. “Fuck _that_ , Densen.”

Mikkel looked at the side of his head for a long moment. The barely there hairs at his nape. The faintest hint of stubble along his jaw. The swell of his cheekbone, far more noticeable at this angle than any other. The freckles. He had far more freckles than the smattering across his nose Mikkel had seen when they first met.

It felt like a lifetime ago and a breath ago at the same time. His tangled brain protested twice before he finally found the number: two days. Skewed by the stop-and-start of the case and nearly incorrect with the hour ticking ever later, but for now it was the truth. He had known Arthur Kirkland two days, and he’d gotten under his skin worse than anyone ever had.

Mikkel leaned over and opened the dash. He grabbed the little bottle of lotion and dropped it in Arthur’s lap. “My hands crack in the winter.”

He started the car and twisted to reverse out of the driveway without waiting for a response. It was truly dark now; he had to focus or he’d drop one of the rear wheels into the ditch. Where was that driveway pillar . . .

Mikkel heard the dash shut and glanced without meaning to. Arthur was gingerly rubbing lotion onto his palms and fingers, but paused when he met Mikkel’s gaze. He’d been caught free of anger; he bristled a little, but it seemed more a gesture to keep things regular than anything.

“Mine do, too,” he said.

Mikkel let the car lunge away from the driveway, revving higher than it ever had on a residential road. He didn’t have to check to know Arthur was smirking.

For better or for worse, this ended tonight.

Arthur guided him back into the Warren. It was a hellscape in the dark, the wasteland set of a dystopian film. Everywhere were shadows and tricks of the eye and actual eyes glinting pale green and yellow when just the edge of the headlights caught them. Mikkel realized now why the streets of the Warren seemed so empty during the day: the wolves all came out at night, and out they were, strutting in heels or puffing clouds of smoke or standing in conspicuous groups. _Packs,_ Mikkel corrected himself, then felt weird about it. He’d been taught to associate the word _pack_ with _gang_ by the police academy, yet the wolves he’d attended high school with—precious few, and only one had lasted to graduation—had used _pack_ for their family and friends. Which was the true definition? Perhaps it depended on the wolf. Mobsters called it _family_ , after all.

The disused gym crouched among an entire neighborhood of abandoned buildings. Some of them were little more than skeletons, rib bones stuck up from the asphalt and dust. Others had rooves and boarded windows; Mikkel wondered how many squatters lived inside.

“Have you been here before?” Mikkel asked. He sounded a bit guarded, but he thought he had a right to. He _was_ angry at Arthur, for the things he’d said about Lukas. He would’ve demanded an apology and closure if he thought Arthur would give him either. _The problem isn’t with me,_ he told himself. _It’s with Arthur. He obviously has shit he needs to deal with._ He’d forgotten how to handle people who lashed out so personally. He hadn’t thought it possible, but he’d grown soft in his father’s absence.

“Yeah, few times. Never really looked at the gym. I just assumed people were probably using it for shelter. Go left here, the road connects.”

Mikkel went left. “Why were you here?”

“Why do you think? I was looking for unregistered wolves.”

The road connected.

“Did you find them?”

Arthur exhaled just short of a sigh. “Yeah, I did. But sometimes I said I didn’t.”

Mikkel couldn’t stop himself from glancing sharply at his passenger, but he kept his mouth shut at least.

Arthur met his gaze. “If you found a mother scraping by with a little kid, would you really ruin her life by bringing her in?”

“I wouldn’t consider it ruining her life,” Mikkel replied. “She wouldn’t be able to afford her tags right away, but there are programs at the Halfway House. Enough volunteer hours add up, the government will sponsor you and pay for your registration. Besides, she’d have to pay for her child’s tags eventually too. This would be better for them both in the long-run, wouldn’t it?”

“If they didn’t take her kid from her,” Arthur said. “Which they might. The kid’s never been in for a check-up, never had a training collar, never been to school. If it sounds like child abuse from _my_ mouth, imagine what a lawyer would make it sound like.”

Mikkel realized, too late, that he’d never once seen a young child at Silver Linings. “I didn’t know that happened.”

“Lots of things happen that they don’t tell us about,” Arthur said. “They’ve tried passing a bill twice now to waive registration fees for children of single-parents, but it never goes through.”

Mikkel glanced over again. There were almost two versions of Arthur: the one who was speaking right now, articulate and thoughtful if not a bit broody—and the other one, the Bloodhound, the one who raised his voice and snarled curses and scorned the careful progress Mikkel had made. Mikkel wasn’t sure how the wolf—the beast he glimpsed in those black fingernails and unblinking stare—fit in with that duality. He’d heard the sentiment _shifting brings out the worst_ _parts of you_ so much that he’d never questioned if it was reality until Arthur came along.

He must’ve been staring a little too long because Arthur said, “Eyes on the road, you’re making me nervous.”

Mikkel scoffed at that. “Nothing makes you nervous.”

Arthur fiddled with an air vent, clearly pleased. “Ex of mine was involved with that stuff. Still is, probably. Politics and that, I mean.”

“An ex like Sebastião?” Mikkel asked, struggling to imagine a Warren wolf anywhere near Representative Vargas.

“No.” Arthur’s voice was tight round the edges, but with some private humor rather than anger. “Not an ex anything like Sebastião.”

Mikkel might have inquired further, but then they were parked—the weed-eaten lot was rather crowded, cars blocking each other in at wild angles atop long-faded stall lines—and making their way toward the building. There were no signs of life, no windows to let light shine out, no hum of air conditioning. No guard keeping watch outside the door. Mikkel couldn’t stop thinking of the gun beneath his coat and the butterfly knife in Arthur’s pocket.

If they died here tonight, would the public ever find out? Would Lukas know?

“What are you thinking?” Mikkel asked as they observed the front doors. This close, he couldn’t so much hear the music inside as feel it. A vague, low buzz of a sound reverberating in his chest.

Arthur considered, then hauled off.

“ _Don’t_ kick the door down,” Mikkel said, pushing it open and holding it. “We’re here on friendly terms until we can’t be anymore.”

Arthur glanced skyward, but walked in with a civil stride. “Fine.”

For a second, Mikkel thought _I could call him kangaroo, but he’s not Australian so that would just be confusing._ Then he gave his brain a hard mental slap to both frontal lobes and led the way into the gym.

Oddly, he was reminded of the walkway on Yao’s lawn. The power to this place must have been cut long ago, because battery lights had been duct-taped to the walls at seemingly random intervals instead. These lights up close had the same dull gold glow as the ground lights at a distance, and it gave Mikkel the bizarre feeling that they’d tunnelled into some underworld version of real life. At the end of this hall would be a mansion turned on its head, and a devil would grin with clacking keyboard teeth.

That didn’t happen. The hallway opened up into what had once been a reception area. The desk was bare, apart from a corner spattered with something dark. Mikkel wondered if this place would smell of blood, if not for the reek of smoke. The music was louder now, bass thumping steadily while a nameless singer laughed and cried something repetitive in a language Mikkel didn’t speak.

Arthur nudged the toe of his boot pensively against a flap of carpet that had torn loose. Mikkel stepped closer to see through the poor light: claw marks, four neat ones on the hoary wood flooring beneath.

 _Danger, danger, danger_ said his heart as it beat along with the bass.

There was a helpful array of labelled arrows on the far wall. Unhelpfully, however, someone had taken a black marker and scribbled over them all. Mikkel squinted. Yoga room? Equipment room, beneath that. Something indecipherable. Snack-something. Then, so abruptly short it could be nothing else: pool. Underneath, in a blocky hand that reminded Mikkel of a teacher he’d had, _ALL BETS ARE FINAL._

Mikkel glanced at Arthur. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

They went deeper. Every step they took toward the pool just confirmed that this was where the noise was coming from. Mikkel could hear voices shot through the music now, high wails and hollered curses. He caught something that almost sounded like a bark, but he couldn’t replay it with everything else rolicking through his mind. Arthur’s face hadn’t changed, though that didn’t mean anything.

When they got to the end of the hall, it was Arthur who pushed the door open this time.

Here, at last, were the people. The volume hit Mikkel almost as an afterthought; it was as if he was too distracted by finally seeing these afterparty-goers to register the physical sensation of the noise. This room was two storeys, to accommodate the impressive waterslide. A shriek had Mikkel jerking his head up. The room overlooking this one had a large window built into the wall which had long since been smashed out; people sat with their legs dangling over the side, cups and bottles in hand, all of them laughing at the girl who’d just spilled her drink over the edge. Two huge spotlights were propped on either end of this windowless hole, aimed at the pool like a stage play. Mikkel and Arthur had to jostle their way through the crowd to see what everyone was so interested in.

In the bottom of the dry pool, held at bay by a man with crisply ringing silver bells in each hand, were two wolves. One black, one grey, both pacing and frothing.

“Goddamn it,” Arthur said, a hand to one ear. “Fucking racket.”

Mikkel glanced down at him, then quickly around the room. People everywhere, on benches along the walls and packed close to the pool’s edge and jostling on the diving boards and even clambering about on the water slide—hooking limbs over the side to keep themselves in place and bawling with laughter when the more inebriated souls lost their grip—and yet none of them were wincing like Arthur. Because there were no wolves here? _No,_ he realized with a little jolt at how senseless the previous thought had been, _because none of them have collars on._

“Pay up or fuck off, blueblood,” someone said, so close and loud Mikkel didn’t realize he was being addressed until Arthur gave him a little shove.

Mikkel got a better look at the guy—a wolf, judging by the eyes—and realized he had a trio of well-dressed youths behind him, college-age kids in European brands who seemed just as at-home among this darkness and violence as the wolves who lived it. Did Li and Emil know them? Did Lovino, Antonio? It meant at least Mikkel’s suit didn’t seem too out of place, but that was a pathetic consolation.

“What are the odds?” he asked, just to see what the guy would say.

The man laughed. “Fifty-fifty.”

Arthur shoved Mikkel again, but this time he was stumbling, pushed from behind. Without thinking, Mikkel put an arm around him and turned to glare at the people crowding closer, but it was more of the same: a wolf taking bets and money from a group of humans. Did Li and Lovino bet on these fights? Mikkel felt sick, trapped by all these people and their breath and their indifference. When he looked down at Arthur, he saw the same feeling on his face.

“We’re not interested,” Mikkel told the man, and began to carve a path through the crowd. Somewhere, someone whimpered. Mikkel hoped it wasn’t Arthur.

 _“Get the money in!”_ blared a shout through a megaphone. Against Mikkel’s side, Arthur shivered like he was freezing. _“Last bets! Let’s go! Get the fuck outta there, twinkle-toes! They’re hungry!”_

The crowd’s voices swelled around them; Mikkel heard erratic jingles and glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the bell-ringer scramble up to safety. This far back, he couldn’t see what was happening inside the pool, but he heard the snarls and roars of pain as the wolves tore into each other. Arthur’s eyes were haunted.

Stepping back into the hall was like breaching the surface of water, at once equal and opposite: the world was muffled as if they were below, but they had all the glorious air of above. Mikkel only realized he was still holding Arthur when he broke away from him to lean against the wall, head bowed. His breaths were ragged, and Mikkel could not be sure of anything in this half-light but it looked like Arthur’s nails were darker than normal.

Mikkel hadn’t even thought Arthur might’ve been more bothered with his own state of affairs than that of the pool room. “Are you okay?”

“No.” Arthur glared toward the door. “I’m pissed off. And I’m tired. And I’m probably a little high, after being in there. Why?” He looked up at Mikkel with the same wolfish gaze he’d had at the pub. “Are _you_ okay?”

 _Maybe you shouldn’t have come._ If Arthur was so unstable, so fragmented between human and wolf, that any little upsetting thing was enough to make him try to shift, maybe what he needed was a break from all this. _He was a detective before, shouldn’t he be able to handle this?_ But his partner had died. Mikkel remembered how dead-eyed Arthur looked when he first saw him, before the hunt of the case got him hooked. _I’m tired._ He needed a rest. He needed . . .

On the other side of the door, people cheered and a new voice on the megaphone howled, _“LOSER GOES TO THE ZOO!”_

Mikkel looked at Arthur.

Arthur pushed off the wall. “Let’s get this over with.”

They followed the other arrows. The yoga room had nothing inside it that would hint at its purpose, aside from a group of people sprawled on the floor, lost in whatever high they’d paid for. A woman counting money in the corner glanced up, bared her teeth at Mikkel. Arthur gave her an unfriendly smile and they moved on.

The equipment room no longer held equipment, which Mikkel supposed made sense; even if the previous owners of this place had gone bankrupt, they would have sold all their assets before they left the place. The far wall was entirely made up of mirrors, making the room appear infinite, black and black and black and pinprick yellow lights dotted along the way. This one didn’t smell of smoke, surprisingly, but something else. He thought it must’ve been sweat, until his eyes adjusted and he realized the salty, musky scent was coming from the people—couples and trios and bigger tangles of limbs and mouths—on the floor and on the furniture and up against the walls. In one second of clarity, Mikkel thought he recognized the prostitute he’d asked about Antonio a lifetime ago. Then she rolled her head back in practised bliss and it could have been anyone at all.

The eeriest part was the quiet. He would’ve expected moans, cries, slaps, _something._ But there were just hisses of breath, quiet grunts, the odd shuddering growl. Were the patrons all human, Mikkel wondered, or were there wolves here paying for the thrill as well?

Arthur rubbed at his nose as they walked away from the orgy. “Fuck me. I’ll smell like musk for the rest of my life.”

Mikkel, dubious, lifted his tie to his nose. It smelled faintly of detergent.

Arthur caught him doing it and scoffed. “Cute. You’re a fucking bucket of puppies. Do us a favor and use that beak of yours to find Lars, yeah?”

Mikkel paused to evaluate the depth of the burn—he’d inherited a rather accomplished aquiline nose from his grandmother and somehow this was the first time he’d encountered _beak_ —before heading back the way they’d come, then turning around when he realized he’d started wrong.

“You have a shit sense of direction,” Arthur remarked.

Mikkel thought again of the lights bouncing blindingly off car chrome, the heat off the asphalt, the little boy wailing for help. Somehow, here, he could think of it without cutting himself on it. Maybe he was too full of this night for anything else to touch him, cocooned in this stuffy dark. Or maybe he was just a little high, too.

“Yeah,” Mikkel said absently, looking at the arrows again. “He could’ve been in any of those rooms, you know. He won’t have a _hello my name is Lars_ name tag on.”

“He’s not in there,” Arthur said with admirable surety. “Don’t you know anything about wolves? The leader isn’t the one who rushes forward or stands at the front. They’re too valuable for that. He won’t be here among these animals.”

Mikkel didn’t ask if it was the lycans or the humans he was referring to. “Where will he be, then?”

Arthur considered, then glanced up at the ceiling. “Where’s the staircase?”

“What staircase?”

“If you had a brain, you’d be dangerous. The staircase that goes to the second floor.”

 _Oh._ The room with the spotlights. _Right._ “If it’s not open to the public, it’s probably behind a door.”

And then it was Mikkel following Arthur, who took them down a hallway he couldn’t remember if they’d been down before. He could see, again and again, how Arthur had been a detective. The clothes were the biggest detractor, really, but those were just a side effect. He could see Arthur in a suit, probably, with his tie loose and maybe an overcoat slung over his shoulders, a cunning autumn creature. He was going to ask Gilbert about him, when this was all over, when he finally had the chance to demand the truth from him or to at least demand why he was not worthy of the truth. Maybe he’d even ask Berwald about him, and about his partner.

Or, maybe, Arthur would trust him and like him enough to tell him himself.

Next to a maintenance closet—still stocked with bottles of cleaner and a mop, which was almost a joke—they found the door that opened to a stairwell. Mikkel picked the lock with only a few fumbles; he blamed the sharp-eyed audience for rushing him. Onward and upward.

“Weird that it was locked,” Mikkel murmured.

Arthur’s hum was nearly lost beneath the muffled bass and the creaks of the stairs. “Why were those kids allowed up here?”

“Li told me he pays for a pass to be invited to these things. Him and a lot of other rich teenagers. So maybe the pass lets them up here, too.”

“Or maybe it’s extra on top of—”

Arthur stopped so suddenly Mikkel stopped too. They were nearly to the top of the staircase; he could see open space above them, shadowy as everything else. Arthur had his head tilted slightly, face to the wall. 

Mikkel raised an eyebrow. “Are you messing with me?”

Arthur glanced at him, mirroring his expression. “I thought I heard a gun cocking.”

Somehow, Mikkel had managed to forget the firearm against his chest. His heart thudded. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“No,” Arthur said, climbing the rest of the stairs, “you probably didn’t.”

Nerves twisted Mikkel’s stomach. He had his gun. He would shoot someone if he had to.

_We’re here on friendly terms._

More hallway. Music from the pool pounded from one end, so Arthur turned his back on it. Mikkel was unnerved more than anything, as he walked at Arthur’s side, by the lack of people in these halls. Perhaps the afterparty had been going longer than he thought, perhaps everyone was settled into their zones for the night. Or perhaps they were about to be ambushed.

Step, step, step.

Nothing but halls and doors. None were marked aside from numbers that meant nothing. Arthur stepped close to each of them, listening, then moved on. Mikkel didn’t ask what his judgement criteria might be. If he didn’t trust Arthur by now, he wouldn’t have let him come along for this.

And yet, something about the way he tipped his head, something about the rock of his shoulders when he walked . . .

 _He’s a wolf,_ was what Mikkel had told himself over and over again in the early days of his friendship with Gilbert, _get over it._ But Arthur was more wolf tonight.

Finally, Arthur stopped and nodded to a door. Mikkel blinked at him. Arthur mimed talking with his hand, flapping his fingers against his thumb. This unwillingness to announce their presence puzzled Mikkel, considering the gun Arthur may or may not have heard from the stairs, but perhaps that weapon was not their welcome. Perhaps they were still unexpected guests.

Mikkel knocked on the door. Arthur didn’t look surprised, only tensed a bit, ready.

The door opened immediately. A man—taller than Arthur but shorter than Mikkel, though not by a whole lot where the latter was concerned—glared at them with dark brown eyes. His hands were empty and his shirt hung unbuttoned, leaving a large amount of furred muscle on display.

“Fuck off,” he said, a growl laced through the words. “The fun is downstairs.”

“We’re not looking for fun,” Arthur told him.

The man’s nostrils flared as he inhaled at Arthur. “I can smell the silver on you, little bitch.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, narrowing his eyes, “let’s not.”

Mikkel edged between them. “We’re looking for Lars.”

“Well, he’s not—”

“Let them in, Sadık.” 

Sadık, to his credit and Mikkel’s unease, only brightened at being told off. He stepped aside to allow them entrance, and Mikkel realized this was a conference room with all the usual trappings: whiteboard with bullet points in either German or Dutch, a laptop propped open to show spreadsheets, kidney-shaped table with all its chairs empty but one. This chair contained a man quite at odds with Sadık: not brunette but blond, not dark but light, not thickset but wiry. His eyes and hands were clever things, flicking at Mikkel then down to the cigarette he was lighting. Mikkel couldn’t help but think of a predator in the way he moved only when he had to, conserving energy for what might be coming next.

Sadık closed the door behind them and stood against it with his arms crossed, biceps bulging against his sleeves.

No one said anything. Mikkel didn’t wait. “Are you Lars van den Berg?”

The blond man blew a slow stream of smoke from his lips. “I am. And you are Detective Mikkel Densen.” His eyes, a pale color somewhere between green and hazel, flicked at Arthur now. “Introduce your escort.”

Mikkel swallowed his protest before it even got out. Of course Emma would have told him about the phone call, and as for the _escort_ bit, who was he kidding?

“Arthur Kirkland,” said Arthur Kirkland, a challenge in the lift of his chin.

“Hm.” Lars gave one tiny nod. “I thought I recognized the Bloodhound. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Does it,” Arthur said, with more teeth than strictly necessary. “Good. Then we can make this quick.”

“Hm,” Lars said again, differently this time, like he could see where Arthur was coming from but alas could not agree with him. “Unfortunately, my reputation must be brought into consideration, as well.”

“You’re right,” Mikkel said, trying to take the wind from his sails. “And that’s why I’m here. I think you might have information about the disappearance of Emil Bondevik and the death of Lovino Vargas. I know they both came to these parties. I know _you_ know they did. So tell me what else you know, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

It was quite impressive hair, as well; Mikkel was realizing that his own bedhead was not nearly as spiky as it could be. Apparently it was true what they said: no matter what you were, someone somewhere was always more.

Lars took another measured drag off his cigarette and appraised them both. “I know the names,” he admitted. “But ask yourselves why someone in my position would bother with a—what is it you said? A murder and kidnapping? No.” He shook his head, only a slight movement, and tapped ash from his cigarette into a small garbage bin. “I am in a generous mood tonight, so allow me to give you a piece of advice, free of charge. Don’t judge wolves as if we are humans. We’re not. We don’t take the risks you do.”

Mikkel could have argued with that, argued that all the drug dealers and prostitutes and heavies on Lars’s payroll were putting themselves at risk, but he didn’t quite think that’s what Lars meant. Arthur wasn’t wrong: the leaders stood back and let the pawns take the fall.

Put that way, however, wolves and humans were the same.

“I’m not here to accuse you,” Mikkel told him. “I’m here to ask for information. I’m sure there are dangerous people here—”

“Dangerous is a relative term,” Lars cut in. He reached out to slowly push down the lid of the laptop. “Are there people here who would be dangerous to young, rich humans? I don’t think so. Are there people here who would be dangerous to a detective and a wolf-killer? That is almost certain.”

“I’ve never killed anyone,” Mikkel objected.

Lars didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to; his gaze boring into Arthur’s said enough.

Mikkel stared down at Arthur. Had he told him _anything_ important?

Arthur glared at Lars. His voice came low, ugly. “I didn’t do anything that wasn’t deserved.”

“I was told the wolves in question were acting in self-defense,” Lars said, still in that infuriating matter-of-fact tone. “But I don’t expect you to believe that. We will always be at odds, because I protect our kind and you protect _their_ kind.”

His eyes were on Mikkel again. He fought to hide how unnerved he felt.

“I protect _people_ ,” Arthur retorted. Something was wrong with him; he shouldn’t have been hunched like that. That wasn’t what human shoulders were supposed to look like. “I did it with the police, and I do it now. Wolves hurt wolves too, even if you don’t want to believe it.”

“Only when they have to,” Lars shot back, finally showing some anger. “If a pack’s territory can provide for them, they will not invade another. It’s humans who forced us to live like this. We can’t bite them, so we eat ourselves to try and stay alive.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the tabletop and scowled. “If those humans were harmed because of their involvement here, they have my sympathies and nothing more. I had no part in it.” He sat back in his chair, eyes glittering. “But if the killer intended a political statement, they have my support.”

For a moment, there was nothing at all. Then Mikkel was grabbing Arthur’s arm to keep him from taking a step forward, because, while they were no longer here on friendly terms, approaching Lars seemed akin to approaching a loaded gun.

 _Where is the gun you heard?_ Where, indeed. It could have been anywhere, in this place. This was a hell-castle, a dragon’s lair full of teeth and smoke and skeletons.

“No,” Lars said, standing fluidly at a height that had Mikkel for once unsure of himself as the one at the greatest altitude in the room, “let him. I was just about to end this conversation myself, but it’s more his style, I believe, to attack without provocation. So.” He held his hands up at his sides, palms skyward. “Unleash your hound, Detective.”

“I’d rather not,” Mikkel said, half-surprised to hear his voice was firm. He tightened his grip on Arthur’s arm and tugged him toward the door, where Sadık was still standing. He looked into the wolf’s eyes. “We’re leaving now. We were never here.”

Arthur was shuddering under his hold, against his side. Sadık’s grin was at once narrowing and widening, drool dripping from half-formed fangs.

“No,” Lars said behind them. “You were.”

Mikkel always thought he was ready for chaos, but then when it actually happened he always seemed to miss the exact moment. It was like he was falling asleep but fighting it off, lagging between consciousness and slumber. He couldn’t see anything, and then eyes open

He was tumbling to his knees, messy, and Arthur had shoved him.

eyes open

He was watching Arthur stab an illegal knife into a brown beast’s neck.

eyes open

He was running, Arthur a step ahead, and blood slicked their joined hands.

eyes open

The hall. The stairs. Wolves were howling, and Arthur shook as if it were the crash of thunder.

Someone was shouting. Lars?

A gunshot. Arthur staggered.

_No._

Mikkel didn’t have time to inspect the dark flower blooming over Arthur’s shirt. He didn’t have time, he told himself, to grab his gun and duck behind the reception counter and open fire. They couldn’t fight their way out of this. Was running cowardly when you had no other option?

Mikkel grabbed Arthur up, up, to his chest and ran for the door.

Another shot, with an extra smash. Mikkel ducked belatedly and, for one crystal second, saw the broken glass of the little tinted window in the door.

He kicked it open. Ran to his car. Struggled with the door handle, adrenaline quivering his hands. Finally got Arthur in the backseat and risked the time to lift his shirt from his abdomen. Blood, everywhere, too much of it to make sense of anything. _It’s not spurting,_ he thought. _That’s good. Right?_

“Put pressure on it,” he said, and when Arthur didn’t move he grabbed the wolf’s hands and pressed them into the bloodiest part of his belly.

Arthur whimpered. Not a wolf sound. A scared, suffering human sound.

Mikkel slammed the door shut.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he said as they tore onto the road. Thank God no one had blocked him in. He glanced in the rear-view mirror every other second to check if they were being followed, but he saw no headlights or movement. “Stay awake. Remember the way there? You can tell me.”

Did he know the way himself? Maybe. In the dark? In this state? Maybe not.

_Deep breaths._

“No,” Arthur said, closer to a moan than a word.

“No what?”

“No hospital.” Arthur sounded like he was talking through his teeth. Mikkel tried to avoid the worst of the potholes and bumps in the road, anything that might jostle him. “I told you. Don’t do hospitals.”

“You’re _shot_ ,” Mikkel told him. “I’m taking you to the hospital. Just tell me where to go. We’re on Seventh.”

Arthur made a complicated noise of frustration, or maybe he was just drowning in his own blood. “Just keep going . . .”

Twenty minutes later, Mikkel knew Arthur was not leading him to the hospital. They were on the outskirts, headed out of the city entirely. They had not been followed, on the bright side, but Arthur’s voice was getting thin. Too thin.

“That’s it,” Mikkel said, grabbing his phone. Ambulances were unlikely to come to the Warren and even less likely to come all the way out here, but maybe if it was a cop calling they’d make an exception to the rule. “I’m not driving you out into the wilderness to die, for God’s sake.”

Arthur snatched the phone from his hand.

Mikkel turned, staring at him. He was pale as a ghost beneath his freckles; Mikkel couldn’t believe he was strong enough to sit up like this. Arthur tapped something into his phone, leaving bloody thumbprints, then handed it back and slumped down on the seat.

Mikkel squinted at the brightness. The white screen was his GPS loading. It resolved itself a few seconds later, highlighting a route to someplace called Willow Farm. Twenty-six minutes away.

If the bullet was still inside him . . . if the bullet was _silver_ . . .

Mikkel kicked the car down. The engine wailed in terrible agreement.

They got there in eighteen minutes, but Arthur faded long before then.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur was gone, but he was here.

That didn’t make much sense. Where was _here_?

He couldn’t see anything, really, and he couldn’t really feel anything either, yet somehow he knew he was lying down. Why could he see his knees? Oh, because he was curled up, right. Curled around something, he thought, but he couldn’t remember what. Moving but still. How was that possible?

_Arthur. Hey. Eyes open._

Were his eyes open? He couldn’t tell. Everything was blurred and slanted like a dream.

“Arthur.”

This was a different voice, a real voice. Real? No, the opposite.

Alfred was sitting beside him. There shouldn’t have been room for Arthur’s legs and Alfred there on the passenger side—right, yes, they were in a car, in the back, yes—but that didn’t matter. Less and less was mattering by the second, in fact. He could feel his heartbeat in his stomach.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Alfred asked.

Arthur couldn’t see his face, but he knew what it looked like. Drawn eyebrows, squished mouth, a little wrinkle to his nose. He could look like such a brat sometimes. And act like one, too.

“It’s not my fault,” Alfred pointed out. “I never got to live long enough to grow up.”

Arthur had the peculiar sensation he was crying from his belly rather than his eyes. Warm wet wept out from him; sadness pulsed through limp veins. He wanted so badly to say _I’m sorry_ , but nothing was coming from where it was supposed to.

_Arthur. Stay with me. See the trees? Do they look familiar?_

There were no trees. There was barely anything at all.

“He’s a liar,” Alfred said. “You shouldn’t trust him.”

No, probably not. Arthur had never been a very good judge of character.

“You’re a liar, too, though,” Alfred mused. “So maybe you do go together.”

_We’re almost there. Wake up, Arthur._

“Will you see me for real when you die?” Alfred wondered, Arthur’s thoughts in his mouth.

_Arthur?_

“The bullet wasn’t silver,” Alfred said, abruptly scornful. “Don’t be such a—”

He woke up.

Terrible how waking was always an afterthought, especially when you did it in a place you hadn’t gone to sleep in. He was awake, and now what? What had been happening? How long had he been awake? Just now, wasn’t it? _Was_ it? Impossible to say.

At least his eyes worked now. The room was lit by a gentle lamp; late night/early morning pressed blackly against the windows. He was on a bed, shirtless, lying on top of a quilt rather than under it. Everything, everywhere, the band posters hanging at wild angles and the too-small or too-scuffed boots galloping out of his closet and the pressed flowers, bluebells and clover, coming unglued from their flat garden on the wall—all of it came at once and he almost choked on the truth of it.

He was in his bedroom.

He was home.

They made it.

Except Mikkel wasn’t here. Perched on the edge of his desk, hands in her lap, was Marianne.

He felt significantly more shirtless than he had a moment ago.

He’d expected the sight of her to hurt a lot more than it did. Still, when her gaze met his, he felt it in several places. It had been too long; he couldn’t remember how to read her face. He thought she looked angry, but that might’ve been her haircut, which was far shorter than he’d ever seen it before.

“Your friend is getting restless,” she said. “So I’m glad you’re awake.”

“You’re not glad I’m alive?” Arthur asked, rather wounded. He didn't mention that _he_ was glad _she_ was awake; between the time she put in here and her commute to the city and all those smart casual appointments, sleep was a valuable thing.

“I think that goes without saying. Dylan took the bullet out.” Marianne got up, stepped over, brushed gentle fingertips over his abdomen. He lifted his head from the pillow to watch. There was no blood, no scar, no sign of the violence he only vaguely remembered. He felt surprisingly calm, actually, and he didn’t think it was because of the quote-unquote ‘rest’ he’d just gotten. “I did the stitches. You’re lucky we have steady hands after being woken at three in the morning. You need to eat more, by the way. You’ve lost weight.”

“That's just dignity.” Arthur touched the spot where her fingers had just been, but it felt normal. “You’re getting better.”

“Practise makes perfect.” She lifted her other hand; the tags jangled as she showed him his collar. “And we had a lot of help.”

No wonder he felt so good. Not even _good_ , just . . . He felt normal, the default state of existence, without the foul influence of that fucking silver. He’d forgotten what it was like, after all these years with a collar on. He hadn’t had it off since his last fitting, when he was eighteen. He’d just gotten new tags ever since, and muddled along with human painkillers and alcohol when he could’ve just let his body remove the pain in a perfectly natural way.

And what a dangerous thought that was.

“Have you got a key?” Arthur asked.

“No. I have very skilled fingers.” Marianne gave the tiniest of smiles. “The locks can be picked, if you have enough patience.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, impressed. He didn’t doubt the locks were pickable; it was just that they were so tiny and complicated that most people preferred rendering them obsolete with large cutting tools. “So you’re really moving up in the world.”

Her smile turned rueful. “Well. I am dating the leader of this pack and I’m pushing for a lot of change with the representatives, so yes, I guess you could say that. I’m trying.”

“Ugh.” Arthur sat up on the bed, swung his legs down over the side. Someone had taken his boots off. He tugged them back on. “Still with that?”

“Politics takes time, Arthur. I’ve only had the internship for a couple months. Do you know how hard it is to get your foot in the—”

“Not that.” Arthur looked up at her. “I meant Scott.”

She tilted her head, but in a _come on now_ way. “Are we really still talking about this?”

“I dunno. I guess not. Are you marrying him?”

“Arthur.” She shook her head, but there was some fondness there. “What’s that you brought with you?”

It took him a moment to realize she meant Mikkel. Arthur pictured him downstairs, pacing a rut in the floor, itching to get back to the case even though they had nowhere to go with it now. “Not sure yet.”

Marianne laughed, just a little one. “Where have I heard that before.”

Arthur let half a smile pull at his lips, remembering them tangled on this bed, her fingers in his mouth, bright eyes, _what are we doing?_ And then, a handful of months later, deflating from their most fiery argument, arms spread in surrender. _What are we doing?_ Not a regret. It was the time spent away from her entirely, the ghost of her unanswered calls, that had been killing him. How about that?

“Maybe,” Arthur said, eyeing the collar in her hands, “I’m an indecisive guy.”

“What was your first hint?”

Arthur smirked. “You’ve grown an attitude on you.”

“Maybe,” Marianne said, eyes gleaming, “I was planted into richer soil this time. I’ve bloomed.”

“If you’re calling Scott fertilizer, then I agree. He’s always been full of—” 

“Tch. He’s changed.” Marianne arched an eyebrow, holding an end of his collar in either hand. There was amusement in her voice, but not the unkind sort. “And so have I.”

Arthur sighed, looking away. “Yeah, alright, just do it.”

She leaned in no closer than she had to and clipped it on neatly, first try, but Arthur still shivered and swore. His skin prickled under the silver. It hated it, and the hate went both ways.

Marianne pulled back, sympathy softening her eyes. She might’ve spent a lot of time with other humans, doing what she called activism and Arthur called ass-kissing, but she was part of this pack too, and she knew wolves. She ducked her head a little, brushed the backs of her fingers over Arthur’s shoulder. She wasn’t entirely fluent in the language, but he appreciated the gesture.

“Oh.” She hurried to the closet and stretched up on the tips of her toes to reach something from the back of a cluttered shelf. She turned with a smile, holding a pale, mint-green stuffie. “Will Monsieur Lapin help?”

Arthur stared, fixated.

Then he said, “His name is Mister Bunny and he will not help.”

“Are you sure?” She gave a gentle squeeze to the stuffie. _Squeee-eeeaak!_

Arthur stood up. “Give me that.” 

He made sure Mister Bunny’s bad ear—he’d accidentally chewed it partially off when he was a puppy—was still secure, then made sure he still smelled right, then carefully placed him at the back of his closet, where he would be safe.

Marianne was watching him, smiling.

He hauled on the first shirt he grabbed. “Now. Where’s my other human?”

Marianne ducked into the kitchen to worry over the kettle—she could cook anything and yet somehow a respectable cuppa evaded her—and Arthur went into the living room instead. No one could agree on what its name was. His mother always inexplicably called it a snug, though Arthur considered it too big for that word; Scott referred to it as the family room, despite the fact that the only time they ever gathered there as a family was to open Christmas presents; and Dylan wanted it to be _the den_ , which Arthur felt was a tad on the nose, all things considered.

Really, _living room_ was best because the room did seem to be alive, even with only the hall light illuminating it. It was the predictable clutter resulting from far too many personalities living under one roof when none of them truly possessed any skill or ambition for organization. Two sofas and one loveseat, all different materials and designs, jostled each other vying for space in the middle of the room. The rocking chair sat back beside the woodstove, both sleeping soundly in the corner as it wasn’t yet cold enough outside to need that kind of heat in the house. A coffee table overflowed with dirty mugs and beer cans and magazines and DVD cases and empty lozenge wrappers. A rack of deer antlers hung high on one wall; a frame held the message _Live and Let Live_ in crochet. An umbrella stand by the door held a single umbrella, a cricket bat, two canes that were no longer needed, and an excellent stick bleached white by the sun.

Mikkel hadn’t noticed Arthur; he had his back turned, studying the photos on the wall. There were even more here than Arthur could remember. He stepped up beside Mikkel and tried to count. Twenty-eight? Maybe thirty-two. Every shape and size, every color frame. People Arthur recognized, people he only knew as wolves, people he hadn’t met yet. Whoever said _life goes on_ was right. He’d left his pack and, shockingly, time had not frozen in his absence.

“Gilbert was here,” Mikkel murmured, too flat to be a question.

Arthur followed his gaze to the picture. It featured himself, Gilbert, and—Alfred. Arthur swallowed. Gilbert was in uniform, just off a shift. They all were; Arthur could remember Liam teasing him for wearing a suit to a farm. He hoped his brothers would stay tucked away in their beds tonight.

“Yeah,” he said. “He came here a fair bit. Everyone knew him.”

Mikkel shook his head. Arthur could see the exhaustion in his shoulders, but his voice barely betrayed any of it. “What changed?”

Arthur knew this couldn’t be the answer entirely, but he gave it anyway. “Alfred was killed.”

Mikkel looked down at Arthur, half his face in shadow, then back up at the picture. “That’s your partner.”

Arthur didn’t say anything. He was too busy remembering Gilbert’s voice: _It wasn’t your fault. Don’t blame yourself, Kirkland. There was nothing you could do._ That was the last time he’d ever spoken to Gilbert. Had his resignation been the thing that sent Gilbert on the path to breaking up with Matthew, shying away from truthful connection? Or was it just the last straw after Alfred’s death? They’d been like brothers . . .

Mikkel was still looking at the photograph. “He looks young.”

“He was young. He was in training.” Arthur heard his voice going screwy at the edges. “I was supposed to look out for him, and I didn’t.”

Mikkel’s brow furrowed, from sympathy or regret. Then he turned to Arthur, and his voice was low, abruptly businesslike. “I got a call just a minute ago. They have Lars in custody.”

Arthur had to blink. It was like he’d just jumped off a cliff and only fallen a foot before someone snatched him back up. He felt a brief, fierce fire of frustration burn in his chest— _you wanted people to be honest with you, and here I am, and you don’t even want to talk about it, you don’t know what you want_ —then extinguished it. He didn’t have anything to say about Alfred anyway. “Who did?”

“I called for backup after we left. Lars and his goons were having trouble getting the party guests to leave, so the officers got there in enough time. Only five shots were fired. Nobody got hurt.”

Arthur let his eyebrows rise. Cops had stormed into that clusterfuck and nobody got hurt? _Surprising_. But then he thought about it again, how Lars claimed to protect their kind. Most of the people at the party had been wolves. Would he have let them get gunned down, in a losing battle, on his behalf? Probably not. He didn’t believe in charity, after all, and who got paid for martyrdom?

“Alright,” Arthur said, trying to arrange his thoughts—if not in a way that made sense, at least in some formation to prevent him from tripping over them. “Alright. So we’re questioning him?”

“Right.” Mikkel glanced at a point just past him and his face went complicated. “Well. I am. Maybe you should stay here.”

Arthur turned. Marianne stood a pace away, two mismatched cups in her hands. He could smell from here she’d put too much milk in. Her expression was oddly similar to Mikkel’s: uncertain, lingering, dubious.

“No,” Arthur assured them both. “I’m going.”

Marianne pressed one of the cups into his hand. “Drink this.” She offered the other to Mikkel. “You both look half-starved. Are you dehydrated?”

“Yes,” Mikkel replied, but didn’t take the tea.

Marianne shook her head. “Your bad guys will still be locked up in the morning. You could stay and get some rest—”

“You don’t understand,” Mikkel told her, but not unkindly. “We’re working in a time limit. We really need to go.”

Arthur couldn’t believe Mikkel still believed in that. He didn’t necessarily think Mikkel was wrong; he just didn’t think it was possible for them to save the day at all, let alone before dawn. Not to mention, Lovino had only been _found_ at six a.m., which gave no indication of how long he’d been lying there before that jogger came along. God knew how long the coroner would take . . .

“Why didn’t you bring backup _with_ you?” Marianne asked. “Then maybe you wouldn’t have gotten a bullet lodged in your abdomen.”

Arthur and Mikkel just stared at her. Neither of them had thought to include backup in their plans—neither of them had considered asking for help—for two different reasons. Mikkel’s eyes darkened in a way Arthur was getting increasingly familiar with and he passed his cup back to Marianne even though he’d only taken a sip from it.

“Better late than never, right?” he said, nudging Mikkel’s arm with his shoulder. “Don’t mind her, mate, she’s been spending too much time with politicians. And my brother, but that’s a side issue.” Marianne gave him the _come on_ look again. He wagged a finger at her. “Doesn’t work, I’m immune.”

She sighed and performed the miracle of finding a place to set down the cups on the overcrowded coffee table. Then she stepped right up to him and wrapped her arms around him. He didn’t quite jolt, didn’t even stiffen really, just— _oh. Okay._ She smelled the same, lilacs and the synthetic sweet scent of the stuff that made her skin soft. By the time it occurred to him to return the embrace, she was pulling back.

“Stop putting yourself in danger,” she whispered. “Leaders don’t do that.”

He smiled, very faintly. “Yeah, I’ve heard that somewhere.”

She looked at him, gaze so vehement he tipped down his chin a little and looked back at her. She was the same height as Arthur, but she had her moments where she looked like a mighty thing. This was one of those moments.

“I’m glad you came back,” she said. “Keep doing that. Okay?”

He inclined his head a little more. He couldn’t lie to her. “Okay.”

She looked at him a second longer, because she knew him, then let her ferociousness fade so she could kiss his cheek. He permitted it because—why? The time of day it was, the time since he’d last seen her, the time between now and the next time he might see her.

Mikkel turned his head away, but his eyes were still on them, fooling no one as usual.

“Okay,” Arthur said again, placing his hands on Marianne’s shoulders and maneuvering her out of their path, “thank you for the surgery. Tell Dylan I said cheers and tell Scott I said fuck off and Liam probably won’t ask but if he does tell him I can smell the incense from my room and I still hate him for it. Do you have all that?”

Marianne just arched a fine eyebrow. She hadn’t plucked them until she got into politics. Cause or effect?

Mikkel offered a hand. “It was nice to meet you. Thank you for, er, doing all this at this hour.”

Marianne shook it. “Nice to meet you, too, Detective.” She smiled, always a surprise how genuine it was. “Good luck with your case.”

Mikkel nodded his thanks and that was that; they were out into the night, across the dusty drive, to Mikkel’s no-longer-spotless car. Arthur held onto the passenger door and gave one last look around. It all looked counter-intuitively smaller at night; the cattle barn’s office light, the lines of fencing, the whispering trees all seemed closer than they really were. Standing there, Arthur was owned by the sensation that they were reaching for him, welcoming him home, imploring him to stay.

 _No,_ he thought to them. _I made my choice before everything went to shit._

He was sorry.

He couldn’t tell if the farm forgave him.

He got into the car. Mikkel pulled away steadily, so the tires wouldn’t spin. Arthur looked out the window at the shadowy pines and shaggy poplars. They hadn’t been so big when he was little . . .

“Listen,” Mikkel said. Arthur glanced at him. He gripped the steering wheel like it might try to get away from him and looked out at the dirt road with a brow low on his eyes. “I don’t want to make this sentimental. I should’ve said it first-thing and I didn’t, so. You scared the fuck out of me.”

“Vulgar,” Arthur noted.

“Yes,” Mikkel agreed. He glanced at him quickly, just enough time for Arthur to see the icy solemnity in his eyes. “Don’t ever do it again.”

Arthur didn’t point out it wasn’t his fault alone. Mikkel wasn’t talking about fault. He glanced over his shoulder. The backseat was a ruin and the faint dash lights just made it look worse. There were bloodstains that could maybe be blotted out and then there was just _yeah get that reupholstered mate._ This was unequivocally the latter.

Arthur sat back in his seat. “Sorry about—”

“Don’t worry about it. I put you back there.”

Arthur hadn’t actually thought about that until now. Had Mikkel carried him? He thought he could almost remember it, the strong arms bracketing him, around his shoulders and under his knees, his head falling against Mikkel’s chest . . .

 _Thank you._ The words were there but his voice was gone. He turned on the radio instead.

Mikkel didn’t look at him, but he turned up the volume.

_You’re welcome._

Lars was sitting in the station’s vaguely pathetic interrogation room with his cuffed hands wrapped round an off-brand cup of coffee and he still looked like he might be plotting everyone’s deaths. Most wolves had sharper eyes than humans, but Lars’s not-brown, not-green eyes were too canny for Arthur’s liking. They didn’t move, they _flicked_ , and they seemed to take in details when there weren’t any details readily present. Arthur, leant back against the wall again, was starting to wonder if Lars worked at it just to unnerve his audience.

He didn’t think it was working on Mikkel. They were both too tired for games.

“This is the last time I’m going to ask you,” Mikkel said. “Tell me what you know about Lovino Vargas and Emil Bondevik.”

Lars’s savvy eyes flicked to the ceiling. “I already told you. All I know about them is they would come to my afterparties, pay their way, and leave. Just like dozens of other entitled human youths.”

“You talk like a cult leader,” Arthur remarked, because someone had to say it.

“Do you mean I am charismatic and well-informed?” Lars asked. “Because yes, that is accurate.”

“I was erring more on the side of creepy and manipulative,” Arthur replied, but Mikkel was talking over him.

“Lovino was in a relationship with Antonio, who is currently pushing drugs for you,” he said. “And Antonio seemed concerned that Lovino might get involved with dangerous people. You said that you didn’t believe someone like Lovino would be in danger at your parties, but it seems like Toni thought that was possible.”

Lars’s shoulders lifted slightly in the world’s most indifferent shrug. “No human guest has ever been attacked _during_ an afterparty. What happens afterward is not of my concern.”

Mikkel narrowed his eyes. “So you admit that Lovino could have met someone there who then followed him home, perhaps, and attacked him and kidnapped him and then left his body for us to find.”

Lars looked toward the ceiling again. “Anything is possible, Detective, but improbable. Neither Lovino nor his brother have been to any of my parties for weeks. Months, in fact.”

Mikkel sat up a little straighter. “His brother went, too?”

Lars turned his face to the side as if he was sighing into some invisible camera. “Yes. Feliciano was in a relationship with one of my wolves for quite some time. I assume so, anyway; he was forever hanging off his arm. They met after he won a fight. I was surprised to see it last so long. Humans generally only enjoy our appeal for one night.”

He was looking at Arthur. Arthur, who had dated Marianne (unsuccessfully in the end, granted) for a lot longer than one night, merely stared back and arched an eyebrow. _Speak for yourself._

“Yes,” Mikkel said, folding his hands on the tabletop, “tell me about your unregulated gambling.”

“And tell us why you sent Elizabeta to attack us, when you’re done with that,” Arthur said.

Lars actually smiled faintly, just a quirk of his thin lips. “We don’t have to be enemies here. I share your distaste for gambling. I’ve never appreciated taking risk, financial risk in particular. But the people enjoy it, and I enjoy my percentage off the top.” He spread his fingers, handcuffs jangling. “It is a win-win situation, you see.”

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Arthur said. He didn’t like anything even close to a smile being on Lars’s face.

Lars shrugged again, eyes gleaming. “It’s been a long time since I was interrogated. It’s amusing and informative. . . . For me,” he added after a pause, in case there was confusion.

Arthur sneered at him. 

Mikkel’s mouth seemed to be considering it as well. “They said _loser goes to the zoo._ I thought you were helping wolves stay _out_ of the Halfway House. Are you making them fight for their freedom?”

Lars’s humor faded. “I don’t _make_ anyone do anything. I assure you, the people in my employ are free to leave at any time. But they would still be beholden to me until I received payment in full. That is how business works. All of my terms are clear and fair from the start. The wolves who fight are all willing volunteers. The winner gets a cash prize and whatever else might be offered to them by infatuated teenage humans. The loser is sent to the kennel, where they can heal safely and contact Emma, if they wish to form a payment plan with us. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.”

He glanced at Arthur coldly. “Elizabeta did. She doesn’t make it a habit of losing fights anymore.”

“Guess I’m the exception,” Arthur said, crossing his arms over his chest. “What kind of message did you intend to send with that performance?”

“I only meant for her to warn you. There are things going on that you should stay away from,” Lars replied. “Perhaps she misinterpreted that. She is an intense one. There are things happening in this city even _I_ don’t know about, and I’m wise enough to keep my nose out of them. People had survival instincts, at one time. I seem to be the last of my kind in that respect.”

 _Fucking freak of nature._ “What are you doing then, bribing the LCO to keep quiet? I never knew about this.”

“Most of your so-called control officers don’t bother looking into things,” Lars told him. “He comes, takes the wolf, and leaves. No questions asked. It’s a wonderful arrangement.”

“He? Who?”

Lars just looked at him. Arthur glared and looked away. _Goddamn it, Braginski._

“Alright, let’s go back,” Mikkel said. “Feliciano dated this winner wolf. What’s his name?”

“Ludwig.” Lars shook his head a little when Mikkel waited. “Don’t expect a surname. Ludwig was only what he went by. Real names are not generally encouraged in places like that.” He gestured to the room they sat in with an eloquent tilt of his chin. “For obvious reasons.”

“Too bad you’re so honest,” Arthur remarked.

Lars smiled, bland and terrifying.

“Are they still in a relationship?” Mikkel asked.

“I have no idea. I haven’t seen either of them for months.”

“Would Ludwig have done something like this? Maybe . . . he might’ve been jealous of Lovino, since he was dating someone else?”

Lars lifted one eyebrow. “This novel will not be co-authored, Detective.”

Mikkel’s glare was ferocious. He pushed to his feet. “Thank you for your cooperation. If we think of anything else, we’ll be back. And if you have any epiphanies, tell your supervising officer.”

Lars inspected the ceiling. “I’ve never been a fan of group projects.”

“No?” Mikkel took the coffee from him. “I thought wolves were pack animals.”

At last, Lars looked pissed. He started to say something, but they were out of the room before he could get past the first syllable. Arthur nearly burst out laughing at the brutish expression on Mikkel’s face. He was probably getting delirious now; they were both almost swaying in the hall, overtired.

“We’re going to talk to Feliciano,” Mikkel said. “I don’t care how late it is. Early it is. Whatever.”

“You took his coffee,” Arthur said.

Mikkel looked at the cup in his hand. “I did do that.” He dropped it into the trash can on their way out and they both heard the splash inside. “Oh. I should’ve dumped it down a sink . . .”

“You’re under arrest for not sorting your rubbish,” Arthur told him. The chill night air tucked cold fingers under his collar and he shivered. “Should I drive?”

Mikkel considered his car, then offered his keys with a surprisingly lack of reluctance. “Maybe yes.”

Arthur took them. “Can I smoke?”

“Definitely not.”

Everything was slow. Arthur was driving ten over the speed limit, but it felt like everything was blurred in foggy slow-motion. The clock claimed they had two hours left before sunrise, but it seemed that any moment Arthur might look again and see they’d somehow skipped ahead to six, seven, eight o’clock. Everything had the unglued sense of a dream, and the empty road in the headlights just made it worse.

He knew they had to hurry. _Hurry, hurry._ Mikkel, despite the exhaustion tugging him down, was bouncing a knee in the passenger seat. The silent insistence of him almost moved Arthur to speak: _I don’t want him to die. Of course I don’t want that. I’m not a shitty person, I mean, I don’t want to be, I just—_

They were here. Arthur recognized the gate, the far wall of the mansion, from Antonio’s pictures. 

How many times would Arthur knock on the door of a dead boy’s house?

They had to knock more than once. Mikkel slammed the lion-headed knocker. He was pacing without moving; his agitation infected Arthur, prickling over his skin and riling something lupine inside him. _Stop,_ he told it. Maybe it wasn’t a good thing he’d been unconscious when Marianne took his collar off. Then he would’ve shifted, and maybe it would be out of his system. Then again, the more often it happened, the easier it was to excite into one form or another. That was how it _should_ have been, slipping between the halves of themselves freely. Lars’s propaganda. Just because a criminal said it didn’t make it wrong . . .

The door opened, at last. A leggy man in a check dressing gown—he had pajama bottoms on underneath, thankfully—and, oddly, fluffy blue unicorn slippers stood blinking blearily at them behind his glasses. “I’m sorry?” he said, like they were in obscure Halloween costumes, “who are you supposed to be?”

“Detective Densen,” Mikkel replied.

An entire second passed.

“Do you have a badge?” the slippered man asked.

Mikkel swung a two-ton look at Arthur. He dodged, but only barely.

“I was here yesterday,” Mikkel said. “I’m investigating Lovino’s case. You’re . . . Roderich? The butler?”

“Oh.” Roderich nodded, just a small one. “Yes. Right. How is . . . did you need something?”

“Just to talk to Feliciano,” Mikkel replied. “If we could.”

Roderich nodded again. “Follow me. Oh, but please wipe your feet.”

Arthur scuffed his boots over the mat and ignored Roderich’s unsurprised face when his boots left marks while Mikkel’s wingtips did not. He should’ve been glad he didn’t have to wait outside— _no_ , he should have cursed Yao out while he had the chance. Now he might never know what a prick he was.

 _Focus._ Different mansion. Hallways, blond wood, professional photographer family photos on the walls. Staged domesticity, but there was a coziness to it. Like it was rich people shit, but done happily and with love. Arthur couldn’t meet Lovino’s gaze in any of the pictures, but especially not the ones where he was smiling.

Roderich tapped his knuckles against a door that lacked a lion-headed knocker but had a surplus of pink stickers, streamers, jewels, and pom-poms. A few moments later, the door opened to a pocket dimension of pink framing a small rumpled prince in a thigh-length shirt for a female pop singer Arthur had preferred to forget about until this moment. He rubbed at his eyes, but they were reddened enough that Arthur doubted he’d been sleeping at all.

“The detectives are here again,” Roderich told him gently. “They’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Oh.” Feliciano’s voice was little more than a squeak. He looked down at his slippers, the pink version of the butler’s. “Well. Okay.”

“We can do it here,” Mikkel said. “It’s just one question, really. It’ll be fast, I promise.”

 _You hope, you mean,_ Arthur thought.

Feliciano pressed his lips together, then leant back in his room far enough to pull a bright pink boa from the fuschia ether. Once it was providing him with a fluffy hug, he nodded again to Mikkel.

Who actually hesitated a tad. “It’s about Ludwig.”

A new darkness came into Feliciano’s tired eyes. He looked at the floor for a few breaths, then up to Roderich. Whatever the message was, it had the disapproving brow blinking clear and the butler removing himself obediently from the hall.

“Are you still in a relationship with Ludwig?” Mikkel asked.

Feliciano shook his head. “I broke up with him a long time ago.”

“How long is a long time?”

“Um. I don’t know. It was back in the spring, I guess. Oh, yes, it was, because when I came home I picked some tulips and put them in a vase with . . .” He deflated again.

“Can I ask why you broke up?”

Feliciano rubbed his arm shyly. A tiny pink feather floated to the floor. “Well. Do you promise you won’t tell Grampa?”

“I promise,” Mikkel said, and the authenticity of it shocked Arthur.

“Promise,” he echoed.

Feliciano glanced down the hall as if someone might be peeking round a corner. “I broke up with him because he was scary. I mean, I know he’s a wolf and they’re all kind of like that, but he was different. I met him when he won a, um, a fight, and I thought he was so handsome and strong . . . But he got mad a lot. He got frustrated really easy. Then he would yell. One time he hit me.”

Mikkel stared. Arthur winced.

“That’s why I broke up with him,” Feliciano said, his voice only a thin rasp. He seemed to be fading more and more the longer they stood here, a candle waning. “I would never stay with somebody who hurt me. People think I’m stupid, but I’m not.”

“I know you’re not,” Mikkel agreed, and Feliciano brightened the tiniest bit. Mikkel gave him a small, encouraging smile. “Would it be possible for you to give me Ludiwg’s address?”

“I—I guess so,” Feliciano replied, “but he might not live there anymore . . .”

“That’s alright,” Mikkel assured him. “Any information is valuable.”

Arthur watched Mikkel tap the address into his GPS. _It’s on the edge of the Warren,_ he thought, _it won’t work, you know it won’t. I barely even know where that is. Don’t get your hopes up._

Impossibly, the screen loaded to a map. Fifty minutes, it claimed, with regular traffic.

Mikkel looked at him, eyes full of the chase, and ran down the hall.

“Uh,” Arthur said over the noise of Mikkel’s feet thumping down the stairs, “thanks, mate.”

Feliciano just stared.

Arthur tore after Mikkel. There was some joy in this, streaming through this moneyed house, thundering down the front path to the car, letting it roar with no care for the sleepers on this quiet boulevard. Arthur was tempted to crank the radio to make the drive less frantic and more triumphant, but he didn’t. Because it was true: they shouldn’t be getting their hopes up. And that was the most insidious thing about Mikkel, the very same thing that had stolen his heart and broken it when it was Alfred’s blue eyes gleaming at him instead. They were both hopeful, misguided heroes. How long before this terrible place ruined the newest model?

The sky was bleeding the last of its dark by the time they got to the place. Mikkel double-checked the GPS, but they had indeed reached their destination. It was a sparser version of the little trailer court Sebastião lived in, everything more spread-out and tattered here where the Warren fell away to dust and weeds. An industrial park loomed as imposing, blunt silhouettes, close enough to make for shitty air quality but excellent property tax. Arthur tried to imagine a wolf living happily among the scents and sounds inevitable to a place like this and failed. He was choking on all of this. And there was something about it, almost . . . familiar?

Mikkel knocked on the door, then pounded on it, then tried the handle with a gloved hand. The door swung open gladly. A reek met them; Arthur slapped a hand over his nose and mouth.

“Fucking hell,” he added for good measure, because it was overpowering enough to make him want to step back but he wasn’t shying away when Mikkel stood beside him.

“Something dead?” Mikkel asked, apprehension pale in his eyes.

“For a long time,” Arthur agreed. Which meant it wasn’t Emil. Which meant maybe, just maybe . . .

They inched in. The fridge hung open, as did all the cupboards. A section of the floor had been torn up by some tool unfit for the job. There was no furniture. Avoiding the hole in the floor, Mikkel nearly stepped on a silver bowl lying upside-down. He stooped to pick it up and turned it so Arthur could see the engraved name: _Berlitz._

There was no door to separate the bedroom from the rest of the place, just a narrowing of the hall to allow for the tiny bathroom. Arthur didn’t have any interest in opening that particular door. He pushed through the stench-thick air to see the bed, or what once would have been a bed. The frame remained; the rest had been stripped of sheets, pillows, mattress. Nothing sat still long in the Warren, especially if no one was there to watch over it.

Something that must’ve been a TV stand was knocked diagonal against the corner. Arthur stepped over to it and reeled back, eyes watering. _Fear._ “Densen!”

Mikkel appeared, eyes wide. “What?”

Arthur pointed with his free hand. The other was doing nothing to keep the scent out of his nose, but he felt a little safer with part of him covered so he kept it there. She had been so afraid before . . .

Mikkel gently brushed past Arthur in the cramped space and leaned to see what he had: bare blackened bones, rent flecked skin strung, a frayed costume skeleton. Dark fur scattered where the scavengers had not devoured it. No collar, because of course a wolf would not collar one of his pack.

“Was it . . .” Mikkel’s gaze slowly found its way to Arthur. “Did a wolf kill the dog?”

Arthur pointed again, at her jaw bone and the empty spaces where her teeth should have been. From there Mikkel could see for himself the crater in her skull. Not a consequence of deterioration. A killing blow.

Mikkel shook his head. “Are you sure he didn’t do it himself? If he was violent, maybe unstable—”

“Look at this fucking place,” Arthur snarled, spreading his arms wide. “He’s been gone. He _engraved his fucking dog dish._ He didn’t kill his dog, and he certainly wouldn’t have beaten her to death if he was going to. And there’s two other dishes. God only knows what happened to them. He left, and someone else trashed this place and killed his dog. Maybe stole the other two.”

Mikkel shook his head again. “Okay, but this is all irrelevant. Maybe he is unstable enough to abandon this place, and he’s somewhere else now, holding Emil—”

“He didn’t abandon it on purpose,” Arthur snapped. “Wolves don’t just leave their pack.”

Mikkel stared at him. “. . . They’re dogs, Arthur. I’m sorry, but there are human lives at stake here.” Something sick lit his eyes. “Listen, if Ludwig really is crazy, he might’ve come back here, you never know. He could have some kind of secret basement in this place. Would you be able to shift and find something like that? If you could smell—”

“I can’t believe you’re fucking asking me that,” Arthur said. He was starting to tremble, he could feel it; the wolf inside him hated this place, hated all of this. Brethren had fallen and no one had howled for them. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound?”

“Do _you_?” Mikkel demanded, abruptly intense. “It’s—it’s _past_ six. Emil is more important than any of this. He’s just a kid. You really want—”

 _“It’s not about what I fucking want!”_ Arthur’s throat rasped after that, and Mikkel took a step back so his shoulders hit the wall. “I didn’t ask to get involved in this. You’re the one who dragged me into this, and what good did it do either of us? It’s your fault. You’re the one deluded enough to think you can save the bloody world.”

Mikkel grabbed him, then again when Arthur jerked free. “And you’re the one so selfish you left your post when things got a little hard," Mikkel said, fierce. “People die. We lose things. That doesn’t mean we have an excuse to throw our lives away. You know how fucked up that is? That _you_ get to decide to live like a fucking loser, and Alfred didn’t even get to choose?” 

Arthur hit him. Afterward he thought he should’ve used _people die_ against him, but by then the moment had passed—always the way—and he was taking the full force of Mikkel’s fist to his gut. He staggered against the bed frame, then barreled into him and sent them stumbling back, back, a twirl and they were clambering across the pavement.

“And what do you choose?” Arthur demanded as they grappled messily. He dragged himself upward by Mikkel’s tie and swung for his head, missed, grabbed his shoulder. “The fucking _good doctor_? Oh dear, what would he think if he saw this? How fuck—fucking un _civilized_ —”

Mikkel rolled them over, shoving Arthur down, then down again. “You stupid goddamned nightmare. Why do you think this is _good_? Does this look respectable? Why do you make me feel like shit for wanting my life to be better?”

“BECAUSE IT’S NOT REAL,” Arthur shouted in his face, and at last struggled free of his hands and flipped them again, pinning him on his back. He tore the tie from Mikkel’s neck and waved it like a victory banner. “Is this real to you? No. This is fucking dress-up.” He showed Mikkel his knuckles, their scabs scraped off and blood oozing brightly from them. “This is real life. It’s not perfect. If I had to live with Lukas Bondevik in his white picket fence life I would off myself before the honeymoon.”

Mikkel shook his head in hopeless disgust. “Then here’s your answer: you’re a wolf. I’m not. White picket fences are _safe_ and _clean._ That’s what I want.” He pushed himself up, leaning on his hands. “And you know something? If I lived _your_ life, I would kill myself too. And I’d do it a lot faster than you are. Because if I had all that happiness waiting for me and I turned my back on it, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

The wolf whimpered, ducked his head, tucked his tail.

Arthur smashed his knuckles into Mikkel’s face.

He let Mikkel grab him by the front of his shirt, only fought him enough to keep the hits coming. _Just kill me,_ he found himself thinking. _It’s my fault. Just prove one of us right. Don’t let us both be wrong._

Eventually, an inhuman sound cut through the impacts and curses and gasped breaths. Mikkel stilled. His phone was ringing. Arthur looked up at him blearily. Mikkel had kindly avoided punching near his eyes, so he could still see more or less.

Mikkel’s face fell when he saw the caller ID. He let go of Arthur and they fall apart, both panting there on the scattered gravel. Arthur painfully pinched his nostrils shut while Mikkel cleared his ragged throat and answered the phone.

Only a moment later, Mikkel closed his eyes. Arthur saw his throat move as he swallowed. All he said, soft and hollow, was, “Yes, sir.”

“I think.” Mikkel’s voice was still hushed. “I think we should go back to your . . . to the farm.”

Arthur wiped some blood from his nose with the back of his hand. “I think that’s a good idea.”


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur called in sick. Mikkel didn't have to; he wasn't supposed to work today, anyway.

_Failure. Failure. Failure._

It was Berwald who’d called him, told him Emil’s body had been brought in and Lukas had come to confirm it. Mikkel couldn’t shake free of the agony of that. He should have been there. He should have been there to see the truth of Emil, dead on the table just like Lovino. He should have been there to see the horror of Lukas, to feel this all-encompassing shame multiply every second he saw the pain in those beautiful blue eyes. He was saved from that, out here in the middle of nowhere, and he hated it. He needed that punishment. It wouldn’t make anything better, and that was the entire point. He had failed Emil. Failed Lukas. Failed Berwald, for the second time in as many days.

 _Use today for rest,_ Berwald had told him. _Come back tomorrow with charged batteries._

He would not be coming back with charged batteries.

It was entirely possible he would not be coming back at all.

He could see himself stepping into Berwald’s office, see the question on the chief’s face, then the cold disappointment when Mikkel slid his badge and his pistol across the desk. _I’m sorry._ That’s all he would say, then leave so Berwald wouldn’t feel pressured to come up with any platitudes. He’d never step foot in the station again. Never speak to Gilbert; he might even block his number, just to avoid anything messy. He would be forgotten.

And then what? Move to a new place, get another loan, pay for a different sort of schooling, start all over again? Meet someone with eyes like Lukas? Or someone totally different. Someone who wouldn’t expect anything of him, so he couldn’t possibly disappoint him. Someone like . . .

“Don’t miss the turn,” Arthur said. His voice was as flat and empty as Mikkel felt. They were both running on fumes.

The farm was the opposite, everything unfurling to life in the morning sunlight. This place was a lot bigger than it seemed in the dark. Mikkel saw people everywhere, milking in the cattle barns and stringing flakes of hay in the pony pasture and dodging chickens and nailing boards and fussing over the radiator of an ancient truck. They were all ages, these people, from vague teenage to one silver-haired woman weeding a small but tidy vegetable garden. Were they all wolves? He didn’t see collars on everyone, but some had shirts to hide them, not that it really mattered . . .

All of his thoughts were unraveling at the seams. He was too tired to reverse; he just put his car as far out of the way as he could and nearly tripped over himself climbing out of it. Arthur, for once, didn’t slam the door and had to open it again and shut it to latch it properly.

Some people waved or nodded to Arthur as they made their way to the house, but he didn’t say anything, just inclined his head ever so slightly to each of them. Mikkel wondered distantly if any were his brothers, but he didn’t catch any strict resemblances, and surely Arthur would say something if he was actually related . . .

In the house, down the hall, up the stairs. Mikkel heard a babel of voices and clashing dishes from the kitchen, an enthusiastic announcer of some sport on the television, someone crooning a Gaelic folk song in the upstairs shower. Then Arthur was closing the door and Mikkel realized he’d been herded into a bedroom. Punk rock musicians on the walls, fable anthologies on the shelves. Anarchy and flowers.

This was Arthur’s room.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Arthur offered, rooting in the closet until he pulled free a spare pillow. Its case was patterned with tiny rabbits dozing in tinier nightcaps. “You can’t stay in any of the other rooms.”

Mikkel was about to ask why, then thought he remembered something about wolves being territorial in combined households, then decided not to ask at all. The bed wasn’t anything close to the queen size in Mikkel’s apartment—he could clearly see this was the room Arthur had grown up in, noting the little disproportionate animal doodles near the baseboard that Mikkel’s parents would’ve skinned him alive for—but it was big enough. Wasn’t it?

“Don’t sleep on the floor,” Mikkel said. “It isn’t even carpet.”

Arthur looked at him, searching, then shrugged. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

Mikkel closed the blinds, dropping them into weak shadow. Arthur hesitated another moment, then kicked off his boots and climbed onto the bed. He took the spot against the wall, which gave Mikkel a single droplet of relief in his ocean of despair; he really didn’t like the idea of being stuck on this bed if he couldn’t fall asleep so close to the Bloodhound.

Mikkel took off his shoes and, after a second’s pause, his jacket. His shoulder ended up against Arthur’s, but before he could shift over Arthur rolled onto his side, curling his legs up so his knees pressed against the wall. It didn’t seem a comfortable pose to Mikkel, but he kept his mouth shut and let his eyes close. The pillow was squishier than his usual and the mattress had a spring poking near his hip and the whole place was louder with life than anything Mikkel was used to, but he was so . . .

So tired . . .

Mikkel had forever hated naps. No one in his family ever napped, not even the cat they had for fourteen years (she ended up running away, his father said, because she was too high-strung to die). Naps were for the invalid and lazy. Hay was to be made while the sun shone, and all that. The one time Mikkel could remember napping had been by accident, when he’d stayed up all night cramming for a history exam in high school and wound up jolting awake at his desk while he was waiting to be dismissed. He recalled the horrible pounding of his heart, limbs electric with useless adrenaline, mortified even though to his knowledge no one had noticed and he’d only nodded off for a second. Naps, as far as he was concerned, were bad news.

This one was not like that.

He woke up with the same rested feeling he’d have if it was any other morning, even though the light fighting through the cracks between the blinds was that straight-on glare of afternoon. He didn’t feel any guilt for lost time; whether he slept last night or today, the same amount of hours had to be deducted. He almost felt like he was on vacation, minus the stress of dealing with his parents. This could’ve been a hotel room, and—

Arthur rolled over and snuggled against him.

Mikkel froze, breath held. He hadn’t even noticed he was angled toward Arthur. Look at all the room behind him! He’d sandwiched Arthur between himself and the wall. One of Arthur’s legs had somehow gotten between Mikkel’s. Everything was quite warm. But Arthur’s eyes were shut and his breaths were even. _Don’t watch him sleep._ Mikkel slowly let out his breath and looked away.

Then he looked back to Arthur.

His face was much softer in sleep, everything rounded from the slope of his forehead to his half-smushed cheek to the line of his snub nose to the journey from his chin to his throat. That seemed the softest part, just under his jaw; it was so severe, the way he held himself when he was awake, but now Mikkel saw he wasn’t quite as skin-and-bone as he seemed.

Arthur burrowed his face into Mikkel’s shoulder.

Mikkel stared down at him in disbelief. Was he trying to shield his eyes from the light? Or was he searching for Mikkel’s scent? The thought should have been more unnerving than it was. _Shouldn’t it?_ But the reality was this wolf’s breath tickling his neck and the smell of him, now that the smokey funk of the afterparty had faded away, was actually almost sweet. It was probably just soap, Mikkel suspected, that kind that was supposedly scentless but always had a scent to it anyway, just clean and simple and so close to sweet that the olfactory part of the brain just shrugged and filed it in the _sweet_ section.

Mikkel knew it was want that throbbed faintly inside him. He let himself feel it as yet more punishment, because what could be more impossible than thinking he could have Arthur Kirkland?

Soon his back ached from staying still so long and he was straying away from warm and more in the direction of sweaty, so he risked stretching an arm out to get his phone from the desk. That was enough; Arthur groaned, tore sleep from his eyes, and pushed himself up onto his knees. “God,” he said, “open the window. It’s fucking stuffy in here.”

Mikkel got up. Arthur yanked the window up before he could. Mikkel checked his phone instead. “It’s twelve-thirty,” he said. “We slept seven hours.”

“Yeah?” Arthur regarded him blearily. His hair was scuffed up in the back and smeared over his forehead. “Doesn’t feel it.”

“Depends what you’re used to. It’s a cycle thing,” Mikkel told him, quoting Gilbert and regretting it. “You might’ve overslept.”

Arthur stared at him like _We were just chest-to-chest and you’re talking about sleep cycles._

Or maybe he was only projecting.

“Do you think I could grab a shower?” he asked, because the last thing he wanted to talk about right now was the two of them. Mikkel’s knuckles were still sore from hitting Arthur’s nose, for God’s sake—which, thankfully, was not broken. Shame boiled in the bile of his empty stomach. _You are disgusting._

“Yeah.” Arthur scratched absently at his collar, gaze wandering. “Go find a door with a bathroom behind it, there’s a few.”

After a beat, Mikkel realized this was Arthur asking for privacy. He shut the door silently behind him. He couldn’t believe how bizarre it felt to walk without the wolf in his orbit. It had only been a couple days, a handful of hours. The tiniest fraction of his life. What was he? Obsessive? Pathetic?

_What is wrong with me?_

The bathroom was a few doors down. Endless toothbrushes in cups, half-empty shampoo bottles, two different colors of facial hair circling the drain. Mikkel didn’t check the mirror; he couldn’t bear it. He just stripped and got in the shower before he could think about anything else.

Failure. His father’s word at first, but he’d adopted it soon enough. Why couldn’t he do anything right the first time? Why did nothing he threw at the wall ever stick? He wasn’t a teenager anymore, had left his twenties behind. He was supposed to know what he wanted and how to get it by now. He wasn’t supposed to be making mistakes anymore. He thought this would be so much different. He thought—

_I thought it would be easier than this._

He let the water run over his face, down his chest, over his back, to his feet and away, away, gone.

Then he got out, dried the self-pity from his skin, put on yesterday’s clothes, and ventured downstairs.

The house had quieted. The TV had been tuned to one of those sky-high satellite channels that played only country music from two decades ago, but no one was in evidence to listen to it until he found his way into the kitchen. He wouldn’t have recognized her, standing back-to at the sink, if not for the honey brown chignon, messy in a purposeful pretty way.

“Marianne?” he asked, wary of startling her.

She smiled over her shoulder. “Good afternoon. Are you hungry? You missed breakfast and lunch.”

Mikkel nodded. The disorientation of time was more punishment. “I don’t want to impose . . .”

“Don’t be silly. Check the fridge, there’s always leftovers.”

He obeyed. She was correct: he ended up sitting down with a plate of cold but fluffy waffles and some peach slices. He supposed it wasn’t rude to text at the table when no one else was there, but it still felt like contraband to take out his phone. No point, anyway. He had no texts or calls. His stomach twisted painfully around the waffles, but he sent one to Lukas: _I’m so sorry. I don’t expect forgiveness. I will find who did it. I promise._

It wasn’t enough. Nothing he could do would ever be enough.

“Are you alright?”

He glanced up. Marianne was watching him as she wiped the last of the suds from her hands with a dish towel. Her concern was so simple; her heart-shaped face had no room for ulterior motive. She was, he decided, one of those rare people who simply cared, no matter the situation or how many other things they were already caring about. Was that what Arthur had liked about her?

“Yes,” he told her. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

She just raised an eyebrow. Mikkel recalled she spent her time with British werewolves and city politicians; she was immune to all amounts of downplay and hyperbole.

He surrendered: “I screwed up. More than once.”

“We’ve all done that,” she offered. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Innocent people are dead,” Mikkel said, “because of my mistakes.”

It was selfish, ruining her day with such darkness, but now that she was looking at him with her soft blue eyes, he had to tell her. If he kept it inside him, he would go crazy—and if he went crazy, how was he supposed to keep his promise?

Some sadness did dim her gaze, and she hugged an arm across her belly, but she didn’t shy away. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she repeated. “And forgive me for preaching outside of my area of expertise, but in your line of work . . . that’s just something that happens sometimes, right?”

In other words: _you signed up for this._ Mikkel abandoned the waffles and put his head into his hands. “Yeah. Right.”

She crossed to him, gently straightened the collar of his shirt. It might have been flirtatious from someone else, or even from her in a different setting, but here in this kitchen it was just a friendly, almost maternal gesture. “Did you do everything in your power to keep it from happening?”

His first instinct was to say _no._ But they’d followed all their leads, they’d interrogated and investigated, they’d put witnesses in safe housing . . . If it was someone else’s case, one he was training on, would he be so biased against it? _No._

“I don’t know,” he replied quietly. “I—I think so.”

She patted his shoulder. “Then you shouldn’t punish yourself, if you couldn’t have done any better.”

He wanted her to be wrong, but she wasn’t. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from poking the wound: “Would you forgive me, if someone you loved died when I was supposed to be protecting them?”

To his surprise, she smiled, ever-so-faint and rueful. “I’ve been asked that exact question before.”

Mikkel thought of Arthur Kirkland versus the Bloodhound, the tenderness of him asleep against Mikkel’s chest. That’s who he was, beneath the savagery he summoned so—seemingly—effortlessly. No matter how he might look now, he’d begun just as Mikkel was, sitting in this chair, begging this girl for forgiveness he couldn’t afford himself.

The scorn he’d hurled at Arthur was ash on his tongue now. If the tables were turned, if it was Mikkel’s partner who’d died on his watch, if it was Mikkel who wasn’t so fucking bitter all the goddamned time . . . who was to say he wouldn’t have ended up just like him?

Mikkel lifted his head to look evenly at Marianne. “What was your answer?”

She placed a peach slice at his lips, and only when he accepted it did she reply, “I would forgive you. But, and I say this as a people-pleaser, you shouldn’t hold the forgiveness of others over your own. Your approval is most important.” She smiled a little. “As a wise woman told me, you are your house and everyone else is a neighbor.”

“Which means,” Arthur said behind him, “it doesn’t matter what they think about your fucking throw rug because they don’t have to deal with it. Are you eating these waffles? Because I am and I’m not sharing them with you.”

Mikkel managed not to choke on the peach slice and protested, “I only had one. How long were you there?”

“Long enough to hear you,” Arthur said, addressing Marianne, “call my mother a _wise woman._ She’d bite you for that.”

“Oh, she would like it. She’s very wise.” Marianne pulled back the sleeve of her blouse to check her watch. “I have to go now, but I should be back by dinner. Will you . . . ?”

Mikkel noted the hesitance in the emotions of the question. They really had missed him here.

“Yeah. Don’t worry.” Arthur put his hands into his pockets, as if that would hide his sincerity. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Marianne smiled and awarded him with a kiss on the cheek. He wrinkled his nose at her, to keep things regular, and she wrinkled hers right back, to make him half-smile down at the waffles.

She turned to Mikkel, paused an extra second, then offered a hand rather than a kiss. He shook it gratefully and said, “Have a good day.”

She laughed, but not unkindly. “You, too, Detective.”

Mikkel and Arthur both watched her go. Then Mikkel watched Arthur take a carton of chocolate milk marked _SCOTT_ from the fridge and drink directly from it.

“Your brother?” Mikkel guessed.

“Mm.” Arthur screwed the cap back on, then offered the carton to Mikkel.

“I’ll pass,” he said. “I thought chocolate kills wolves?”

“Eh, enough of anything will kill anything. Our fearless leader has a sweet tooth.” Arthur disappeared behind the fridge door. “D’you want something to drink? There’s orange juice. And cran-apple, whatever the fuck that is. And what—who is buying all of these grapes? There has to be two pound of grape here. They really are trying to kill us.”

Mikkel kept waiting for Arthur to be uncomfortable, so _he_ would have an excuse to feel uncomfortable too, but it just wasn’t happening. _Of course it’s not,_ he thought. _Most people aren’t uncomfortable in their own house. Most people love their families._ The same sense of cohesion Arthur had with his bedroom extended, in some ways more than others, to the rest of this house. He’d grown up here—he belonged here—and he had the confidence that came from that.

“I’ll try the cran-apple,” Mikkel said finally.

Arthur popped up over the fridge door to give him an incredulous look. “Yeah? Do you want some avocado to go with? Liam’s got a whole drawer of New Age propaganda if you’re interested.”

Mikkel wasn’t sure if that referred to food or not, but the fact the fridge had been open for this whole conversation was prematurely aging him so he said, “No, just the juice is fine. Where are your glasses?”

“That cupboard. No, not that one, _that_ one. Yes. Behold the glasses. And hand me one, would you?”

The cran-apple wasn’t bad. Watching Arthur suck a spilled droplet of orange juice from his finger wasn’t bad either. But Lukas still hadn’t texted him . . .

“That stays in here,” Arthur told him, pointing at the phone with a heavy helping of distaste. “I would put it on silent. Actually, you should put it in my room. I don’t know if anyone has their kids here today and you don’t want them finding it.”

That was correct. “Where are we going?”

“We ate, so now we’re earning our keep.” Arthur considered Mikkel’s trousers—no longer pressed—and his dress shirt—no longer tucked in. “You should change first. Probably something of Scott’s would fit, you’re both wide.”

Mikkel looked down at himself. _Wide?_ “These clothes are fine—”

“Oh, get over yourself and follow me.”

Mikkel did the latter and let the former remain on the to-do list.

They worked. Working, he swiftly discovered, was a lot different than working out. Working out was an hour at the gym to maintain a state of body; _working_ was as long as it took to maintain things outside himself. Mikkel didn’t admit it to the wolves around him, but he’d never actually done the sort of physical labor a farm required. He had strong arms and his legs weren’t too shabby either, so he let them assume what they would and tried not to get into anybody’s way.

He wasn’t wholly shocked when Arthur abandoned him almost straightaway. He only lingered long enough to make sure Mikkel knew what he was doing—granted, scraping the barn was not rocket science—before someone was calling out to him and he was gone. Mikkel caught glimpses of him over the next hour, talking with a slightly younger man who looked quite like him if not for the ginger hair or pushing a wheelbarrow or greeting a curious pony with a light stroke to its neck. Mikkel somehow felt old and young at the same time, watching him: he had lived too long to blend into a life so well, and he would never live long enough to achieve it.

 _I want that,_ he thought. _Please. Why can’t I just—_

A calico barn cat brushed her tail against his leg in passing. He sighed. Bad thoughts had no place here. He’d not been born into this, but he’d been welcomed all the same, so there was little point in moping.

Mikkel helped with the barn, with the field, with the fence. He lifted things and hammered nails and helped a hirsute but affable wolf finally sort out the issue with the old pickup truck. He was just stepping away from the truck to find someone else who needed his help when he felt a hand clap him on the shoulder. He turned.

“You’re Densen, are you?” This from a tallish man—not as tall as Mikkel, naturally—with auburn hair and stubble trimmed just shy of scruff. He was wearing the same sort of jeans-and-T-shirt as Mikkel, which made sense considering, “I’m Scott. Nice to finally meet you.”

Mikkel scrubbed the sweat from his hand before clasping Scott’s for a shake. “Is it always this busy here?”

“We try to keep it that way. Work is therapeutic.” Scott cocked his head slightly. “Arthur give you those?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry—”

“Don’t apologize for him.” Scott paused so they could enjoy the breeze. Mikkel had a feeling a sunburn was working its way over the back of his neck. Scott’s eyes, a paler sort of green than Arthur’s, sized Mikkel up. “Mari said you were a detective.”

Mikkel nodded. He’d almost managed to forget, but yes, he did have some sort of life outside of this place he’d have to deal with when this endless day came to a close.

Scott’s face was impossible to read. “Did you work with him?”

“No. I came to this jurisdiction a year ago. Right after he resigned, I guess.”

Scott nodded slowly. “I was beginning to think he’d never come back. So I guess I ought to be grateful to you. Even if you did bring him home bleeding. He still came home. Bastard!”

Mikkel started, but this shout was not for him. He followed Scott’s gaze to Arthur himself, who was holding a chicken so a pair of tiny girls of unknown age could stroke its feathers. One of the girls covered her ears and the other stuck her tongue out at Scott, so Arthur did too before putting down the chicken and meandering over. The girls followed; the chicken did not.

“You shouldn’t swear,” said the girl who’d covered her ears.

“No,” agreed Scott.

“You should say sorry,” said the girl who’d stuck out her tongue.

Scott raised a fiery eyebrow at Arthur. “Are these your lawyers?”

“Yep.” Arthur tapped each of their strawberry blond heads. “Kirkland and Kirkland and associates.”

“Uncle Art knows I’m sorry.” Scott hefted both girls into his arms. “Is your mum here?”

They shook their heads. “Mummy had to work. There was a doggy and she’s having _puppies_ and Mummy said maybe we could even maybe have one . . .”

Scott nodded along, but he gave Arthur a long, hard look before he carried the girls away.

Arthur returned the look, then squinted up at Mikkel. “High time we got out of the sun, don’t you think?”

Mikkel nodded, but Arthur steered them away from the buildings, toward the treeline. “Uncle Art?”

Arthur cringed a tad, but his eyes were bright. “Yeah, disgusting, isn’t it? They’re Dylan’s. The one who took the bullet out of me? Yeah, he’s the least horrible of the lot, even if he did get married. Met her at vet school.”

Mikkel opened his mouth to ask where the distinction lay between veterinarian and doctor when it came to lycans, then decided against it. “So the girls are . . .”

“Human.” Arthur glanced back at him, face suddenly dark. Framed as he was by alders and wild honeysuckle, he looked even more inhuman than usual, a temperamental forest god humbled into human form. “Don’t say they’re _half_ or _mixed_ or whatever. Don’t be one of those people.”

There had been a time, on the cusp of Mikkel’s and his parent’s generations, when it was socially accepted and expected to acknowledge who may or may not be carriers of the lycan gene. Now that science was advancing and political correctness had become more of a priority, it was better to only claim lycanthropy if you had a government-issue collar around your neck. Anything else was shrugged off as irrelevant or manhunted as appropriation.

“They’re sweet,” Mikkel said. “I didn’t know you liked kids.”

“Who said I liked kids? Don’t go fucking domestic on me.” The undergrowth was thinning now, fading to crumbled earth and climbing moss as the ground sloped away. Arthur led Mikkel through a gully—too hot yet for water to collect at the bottom—and up the opposing incline. And here, suddenly, were the willows.

It was a range, a field, a meadow. There was a lake, small enough to see the other side but big enough that you’d have to be motivated to venture there. Willows surrounded it, reaching over the shore and dipping their delicate fingers into the water. As Arthur led the way across the grass, greener than green and dotted with white clover, Mikkel had to keep reminding himself they’d driven here. This was half an hour from the city. 

Impossible. This was another world.

At last, they came to the biggest of the willow trees and sat among its roots. Mikkel couldn’t begin to guess how old it might be, but it was blessedly cool beneath its swooping branches and for that he was grateful. All around him were silky curtains of golden light and the warm greenery of life, everything so real it had to be fake.

“Is this your land?” Mikkel asked. “All of this?”

Arthur nodded, crossing his ankles over a large gnarled root. “It was Mum’s. Now it’s in Scott’s name.” He rested his head against the trunk and closed his eyes. “She wanted me to take it. I said no.”

Mikkel stared at him and the admission he’d just placed between them. He really couldn’t be surprised, though; it was easy to be honest, perhaps more honest than you intended, out here. He felt truths of his own rising, but kept them in his chest for now. “Why?”

Arthur breathed a bit before he said, “Because I wanted something different. I was selfish, probably. Impatient. I dunno. The wolves that come here are all from the Warren. The ones who’re too scared or too smart to get involved with loan sharks. They come here, and they work, and we pay for their registration. Help them get back on their feet. Mum started it years ago. It’s not for everybody. But it helps some people. I wanted to help the ones that stay in the city.”

Mikkel tried to remember if he’d ever thought _I want to help people_ when he applied to police academy, or if he’d just done what he’d thought would seem most impressively capable to his parents. Of course he said that _now._ Of course he wanted to help people. If he didn’t, what was left of him?

“Did you?” he asked. “Help people?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur said through a sigh. “I guess. Some. Maybe. Look at what I’m doing now. Does that help people? No. Not really. Marianne’s got the idea, I guess. Trying to change the whole system. That’s the only way to actually help, in the long-run. But I’m no good for that. I’m not a leader.”

Mikkel remembered Arthur staring down into Antonio’s eyes in the interrogation room, glaring at Lars, facing a room full of wolves and having them all submitting to him in a matter of minutes. But he remembered, too, Arthur shoving Mikkel out of the way when Sadık lunged, volunteering to retrieve Sebastião when anything could’ve been waiting for him in the trailer, attacking Elizabeta when someone else—maybe even Arthur himself—likely could have talked their way out of it with some finesse and diplomacy.

“But you’re not a lone wolf, either,” Mikkel murmured.

Arthur opened his eyes, two more tiny bits of green light in this ocean of it. He studied Mikkel’s face for a long moment, so long Mikkel very nearly asked what he saw there, then broke the silence with a question that had only one answer.

“Do you want to meet the wolves?”

Mikkel expected them to go deeper into the wood, but they only stood there beneath their tree. “They know we’re here already,” Arthur said. “They’re just not sure about you, or they’d already have made an appearance.” He framed his mouth with his hands. “Cup them like this.”

Mikkel blinked. “You want me to howl?”

Arthur gave him a look. “Would you go into someone’s house without knocking? Be polite.”

_Seriously?_

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

Mikkel sighed and cupped his hands around his mouth. This was far, far off from not getting involved with Wolf Things. What would Gilbert say if he knew Mikkel was about to do this? He’d been here before, but had he done this? Well, who knew, maybe he enjoyed this kind of thing. Maybe he’d be glad about it. It was just bizarre for Mikkel to imagine Gilbert doing something so . . . wolfish.

_How would he feel if he knew I saw him as a human?_

Despite what people like Yao might believe, Mikkel didn’t think it was very complimentary. Just because Gilbert and Arthur beside him _looked_ human didn’t mean they were—and that was not a bad thing. Mikkel had grown up thinking he was so much better than his parents, but when it came down to this, he was just—

“Forget about whatever you’re thinking,” Arthur advised. “Wolves don’t read minds.”

Mikkel glanced at him. Arthur smirked, then tipped his head back. His call was far more lupine than anything Mikkel would be able to produce, lifting high and tapering down in note until it faded to silence. It had a loneliness to it that pricked something almost like tears at the back of Mikkel’s eyes; he felt sadness building in his throat again and, before he could think himself out of it, lifted his face to the sky and let his own howl join Arthur’s.

For one second, Mikkel stopped, expecting to feel embarrassment. He felt none.

He filled his chest with air and sorrow and howled until his eyes watered and dried again, until his throat rasped, until Arthur touched his wrist to shush him and he realized his voice had not been alone. Somewhere, wolves keened to them, countless singers wailing and whining among the trees. Their message was so clear Mikkel didn’t even need Arthur to translate: _Here! Close! Come! Pack!_

But they couldn’t. _He_ couldn’t, and it broke his heart.

He looked to Arthur just in time to see him swallow, hard. He opened his mouth to ask if this pack was somehow approved by the government, if only to distract them both from the grief, but then something caught his eye.

It was movement so subtle he wondered in the next moment just how he’d even noticed it, because it seemed almost impossible: in a breath, there were wolves. A dozen of them, grey and black and brown, slid from behind the willows and stood there, several strides away, watchful apparitions. Mikkel had never been so close to shifted wolves without aggression clouding the air. He’d never witnessed them like this, silent and still and peaceful. He’d never been their guest, but—in this form and this forest—he was now.

“Nearly all of them,” Arthur said in an undertone. “They’re curious about you.”

Mikkel glanced at Arthur, expecting sarcasm, but found only the same sense of wondrous reverence Mikkel felt. He cleared his throat faintly. “How do I . . . say hello?”

“You’ll have to wait for them to do that,” Arthur replied.

So they stood, watching themselves be watched. It should have felt anticlimactic, Mikkel thought, but just the quiet of the wolves in itself was enthralling. A few of them stepped closer and a couple wandered off; some crept sideways and another trotted over to lap at the lake. Mikkel knew the obvious signs of anger, pinned ears and raised hackles and bared teeth, but he couldn’t interpret any of the subtle ear flicks and tail waves that flowed between them as they made their slow approach.

Five minutes must have passed, with the wolves still out of reach, before Mikkel asked, “Who are these people? This is illegal, right?”

Arthur shrugged lightly. “They’re people who’ve come here for help, same as the others. Older wolves.” Mikkel saw the silver fur flecking some of their muzzles. “Ones who get diagnosed with things that would kill them if they lived as humans with collars on. So they come here instead.”

Mikkel stifled a shiver in the breeze. “But it is like dying, isn’t it? They can’t think like us anymore. They can’t talk. They can’t do—hobbies. They’re not really themselves.”

Arthur shook his head. “You can’t understand.”

Despite everything, a tiny wall fell into place between them. Low enough to see over, but Mikkel would smash his knees into it if he tried to get closer. Emotions had no filter out here; he almost felt like he’d shifted himself, into something he didn’t recognize. He _felt._

Suddenly some force rippled through the wolves. As one, they all looked back into the thickening trunks, and from the tangle of whispering willows came a new wolf. Brindle with red on her ears and legs, the she-wolf picked her elegant way straight past her pack and over to Mikkel and Arthur, who knelt.

Two pairs of green eyes went to Mikkel. He was fairly certain the rest of the wolves were now watching him too. He got down on his knees hastily.

The sorrel-faced she-wolf sniffed first at Arthur, then at Mikkel. He held his breath when her nose came close to his throat, but Arthur just looked faintly amused so he didn’t protest. He wanted, he suddenly realized, to know all of this. He deserved Lars’s scorn, but he didn’t want to. He was a servant of the people, and these were part of the people.

At last, the she-wolf seemed satisfied with her inspection and turned back to Arthur. She nosed at his hair, which he permitted until her tongue got involved and he tugged at her ruff. “Alright, alright, my hair’s not that bad. He’s the one who needs a haircut, not me.”

She licked his hand instead, and rested her chin on his palm when he offered it. Any amusement in his face faded as he looked into her eyes and she looked back. Only then did Mikkel realize their green was precisely the same.

“Who is she?” Mikkel whispered.

Arthur looked at her a moment longer, then pushed to his feet. “Mr. Densen,” he said, grandeur only enhancing the sadness in his words, “allow me to introduce you to Ms. Faye Kirkland. Mother of four, grandmother of two as far as we know, founder of Willow Farm, excellent on the Irish flute when she still had fingers.”

Faye stepped back when he stood, lips pulled tight as if in disapproval of his tone.

Mikkel slowly rose to his full height as well, and this was enough to send Faye loping back to the others. They whirled around her, frisking and yipping, wagging and nuzzling. Not so different than dogs, really, just twice the size and probably quadruple the bite strength. But the camaraderie of the pack, the companionship and loyalty . . . The wanting returned, no longer so specific as it once was: _family, friends, love._ Success? There was no success out here, just life.

“Dementia,” Arthur said. He didn’t look away from the pack. “Early-onset. If you were wondering.”

Mikkel watched the wolves fade back into the trees as if they were no more than mist. “Does she remember you?”

“Not my name, I’m sure. She couldn’t quite keep track of us, before she made the decision.” Arthur put his hands into his pockets and tipped up his chin. “She knows me, though. Enough. She wouldn’t have come out for a stranger. She’s in charge here.”

Mikkel nodded. He had so many wordless questions melting on his tongue. Only one crystallized. “Would you join her? Them?”

The breeze swept past again, ruffling their hair. Everything inside Mikkel was complicated, but Arthur seemed, for once, perfectly straightforward. “One day,” he said, gaze distant as the last of the pack retreated. Faye looked back at them, twitched an ear, and vanished. Arthur’s lips moved; Mikkel couldn’t be sure if he made any sound at all. _Bye, Mum._

Then Arthur inhaled and looked up at Mikkel, all of his rough and ready bravado crumpling back into place. “Reckon you can find our way back to civilization?”

It was only a straight line, but Mikkel still felt something like pride when he found the farmyard again without a word of help from Arthur. When he glanced back at him, ready to dodge a smart remark, Arthur was just smiling at him. It was faint, but it was there.

_This is not allowed._

Mikkel smiled back.

Growing up, between the ages of five and ten, all Mikkel wanted was a treehouse like so many kids had in movies and television shows. It was entirely impossible, least of all because at the time they lived in a soulless subdivision with a backyard barely big enough for flowers let alone a house-bearing tree. Even if they’d lived in a place as rural as the farm, however, Mikkel’s wish would not have been granted; his parents were just as useless with physical endeavors as they were disinterested in his happiness. He was more or less a dog, obtained because puppies were cute and there was a general sense that a breeding pair ought to breed, but when it came to the reality of upkeep it was more along the lines of _Mikkel I’m trying to do laundry would you please entertain yourself Mikkel I’m in the middle of something go outside Mikkel your room isn’t getting any bigger so I suggest you get used to it._

So it was multiple contributing factors that landed young Mikkel on the roof, but really just one factor that made him climb back to safety time and time again. Still, the view wasn’t unpleasant from up there and his parents’ fighting was almost completely muffled, so it was a nice spot even if it wasn’t a treehouse. Sometimes he could hear kids playing down the street . . .

“There you are. Liam thought you were lost. Take this from me before I break my neck, would you?”

Mikkel looked down. The house was an amalgamation on the outside just as much as it was inside, after being added onto multiple times over the years, and so it hadn’t been difficult for Mikkel to climb out of Arthur’s window and situate himself on one of the smaller slanting roofs. Arthur had a bit more trouble, even after he’d handed up two plates of mashed potato, meat, and a clump of undefined vegetables that had been covered in gravy along with the rest.

“Scott would have my head for this,” Arthur remarked, taking back his plate and balancing it on his knees, “so if he finds us just push me off and save me the trouble of listening to him.”

“Will do,” Mikkel said quietly. How was it that he could be so taken by this place, yet so ruined by it at the same time? Because he wanted to stay, and he knew he couldn’t. That was the simple fact of it. Arthur claimed he couldn’t understand, but maybe that was wrong. “I see someone likes gravy.”

“Don’t look at me. I just took what they handed to me. They don’t let me near the kitchen.”

Mikkel began to painstakingly cut up the meat with the side of his fork. “I can see where you came from,” he said. “This place is . . .”

Arthur glanced at him, then out at the yard and nodded. Lit by the gold of sunset, the cows munching their silage supper, the mousers washing each other’s ears in the blue shadow of the barn—it didn’t need words. It sold itself.

“I probably shouldn’t have left,” Arthur remarked, and Mikkel looked sharply at him when he heard the scrape of self-consciousness in his voice. Arthur carved his initials into the mashed potato. “I mean, I wanted to, but I wouldn’t have been miserable here. I would’ve been _fine_ , probably. And all this shit wouldn’t have happened.”

“You don’t know that,” Mikkel told him. “It could’ve worked out the same, or worse. It’s no good worrying about stuff like that. You can’t change the past.” He felt a twinge in one of his knuckles as he adjusted his grip on the fork. “Speaking of that, uh, how’s your nose?”

Arthur scoffed. “Oh, it’s grand. I’d forgotten about the ache ’til just then, so thanks for that.”

Mikkel smiled faintly. “You’re welcome.”

They sat and chewed. The meat turned out to be beef. The sun moved another inch lower in the sky.

“I want to ask you things,” Mikkel said, “but I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”

Arthur appraised him sidelong. “I won’t fight with you.”

“I’d like that in writing.” Mikkel felt disproportionately warmed by the chuckle. “I’ve just assumed, but I wanted to make sure. The wolves you killed. They were the ones that killed your partner, right?”

He braced himself for it, but darkness didn’t overcome Arthur. It slanted his mouth a bit and slumped his shoulders a tad, but he kept his head up, face aglow in the sunset; Mikkel couldn’t believe how many freckles he had.

“Yeah,” he said. “We were there looking for drugs. Not even bane, just some street pills. Ridiculous. It wasn’t even worth the time, but I thought I might as well take him. _Good training,_ I thought. And he was raring to go as always. He was up for anything.”

Mikkel might have been mistaken in thinking that Arthur spoke about Alfred in the same way he looked at Marianne— _love, lost_ —but he didn’t think he was.

Arthur pushed his shoulders back, exhaling through his nose. “Long story short, they were all wild from the drugs and they shifted and attacked us. I had my gun, but I didn’t shoot them. I thought _maybe I can calm them down._ Yeah. Not after they’d taken whatever they took. They were out of their minds.” He turned a weary gaze on Mikkel. “I got them off of him, got the door shut, made the call. They took us both to the emergency room. Afterward they told me he was already dead when I dragged him out.”

Mikkel couldn’t say anything. He just held Arthur’s gaze, taking all that he was given.

“So, moral of story. Life is easier when you don’t care about people.” Arthur sighed again, softer this time, and looked out toward the willows. “I wish I could do that.”

Low, quiet, wary of spooking the wolf, Mikkel asked, “Do you wish I hadn’t saved you? When you were shot?”

Arthur frowned lightly, pensive. “No. I’m too much of a coward for that. I didn’t want to die. That wouldn’t make it better, anyway. Alfred would still be . . .”

Mikkel looked at him. Arthur looked back, then furrowed his brow. “But it’s still my fault. There was no reason for him to die.”

“No,” Mikkel agreed. “But is him dying a reason to throw away your own life?”

Arthur drew his legs up more, his plate sliding back on his lap. “No.”

“What would he say? If he saw?”

Arthur scoffed again, but fondly. “ _Turn that frown upside-down_ , probably. He was too much for me, really. There was a time when I thought . . . Yeah. Anyway. I don’t need to tell you this. Suffice to say, he preferred pop music.”

“Blasphemy,” Mikkel remarked kindly, and ignored a little slip of fear when he realized he didn’t know what music Lukas liked listening to, if any at all.

“I know.” Arthur glanced at him and a weirdly amused look warped his features. “I can’t get used to you in jeans.”

“The legs are too short.” Mikkel tugged on one of them to demonstrate how it refused to cover his ankle. “I wear jeans sometimes, though. When I’m working on my car I wear jeans.”

“Oh, Odin’s a mechanic, as well. Have I used that one yet?”

“I think so. A couple times.”

“Shit. I’ve run out.”

“I think yours will be Teacup,” Mikkel said.

Arthur swung his head like a horse. “ _Teacup?_ Have I once drunk from a teacup since you met me?”

Mikkel grinned. “Yeah, Teacup is what I’m going with.”

“For fuck’s sake.” But he was smirking down at the vegetables he’d left on his plate. “I figured you’d come out of the womb in a three-piece. Now I’m learning you have hidden depths.”

Mikkel shook his head. “I told you, I went to a private school with uniforms.”

“Ah, so you did. Forgive me, I’ve had blunt force trauma to my head recently.”

“Sorry.” Mikkel thumbed his knuckles ruefully. “I used to be fun, you know. Growing up. I did fun stuff. Then my grandmother died and my parents inherited her money. Her life, really. Reputation became way more important. Success was all they cared about. So . . .” He gestured to himself. “That’s why.”

“That’s why,” Arthur echoed, not without sympathy. “Do you talk to them? Ever?”

_If that’s the kind of attitude you’re going to give us—It’s because of that academy, dear, you know it is, they encourage this type of behavior—Get out of this house and don’t come back until you act human._

“They send a card at Christmas,” Mikkel replied. “They . . .”

But he never talked about his parents with people. Gilbert knew nothing about them; what was that about friendship earning honesty? Mikkel never wanted Lukas to know the truth of how he’d been brought up. No one wanted damaged goods. Mikkel refused to go through life burdening other people with his woes, and refused to let people see him through the frame of _oh that’s Mick Densen, such a shame, did you hear about how his parents ruined him?_

Arthur didn’t say anything, just watched him on-and-off, gaze wandering away and then back to him, all of him patient, unbothered that what he was waiting for may never arrive.

Mikkel thought, first, that he didn’t want to tarnish this place with the memory.

Then he realized that was the magic of here: it took the bad and did away with it, worked it down into nothing in these never-ending days, burned it away with the brightness of sunshine, churned it into the earth where it fed the worms and cradled the roots. It was like a plant, removing the poison from the air and breathing oxygen back out. A place for healing. So he told him.

“For my eleventh birthday my father took me into the city—not this city, a much bigger one—and we went to a huge toy store. I thought it was great. I played with other kids that were there, for God knows how long, and then their parents said they had to go. One of their mothers asked me where my parents were, and I realized my father wasn’t there anymore. I said he was here, because he had to be, so she left, and I went all over the store looking for him, more than once. Couldn’t find him. So I thought maybe he was in the bathroom. He wasn’t. So I thought maybe he was waiting for me outside. He wasn’t. So I thought maybe he was in the car. So I walked all over the parking lot. I couldn’t remember where we parked. I couldn’t find the car. I have no idea how long it was, it felt like hours, but eventually he pulled up beside me. I was crying, and all he said was, _Finished now?_ ”

Arthur watched him. The breeze tickled his hair against the back of his ear. Down in the house, someone had started playing the fiddle, and another person laughed.

Mikkel waited for the pain to go away, but it didn’t. It welled, bled, dripped. He hadn’t let the memory play out in full for so long, he’d forgotten what it was like on the other side. Sometimes, years ago, it made him cry even harder than he had on the day. Sometimes, more recently, it made him put his hands through plaster walls. Sometimes he thought _it’s not so bad I mean it’s not like he ever hit me really._ Sometimes he thought _I wish, I want, if only._

But he’d said it to Arthur: there was no use in troubling yourself with _if only._ It was the past. There was no reason for it, but it was no reason to throw things away.

“So you didn’t get a toy,” Arthur said quietly.

Mikkel nodded, because he wasn’t wrong.

“So your parents are cunts,” Arthur said, a bit less quietly.

Mikkel nodded, for the same reason as before.

Arthur sighed through his lips this time, then leaned just close enough that his shoulder nudged Mikkel’s. He didn’t look at him now. “I’m sorry eleven-year-old Mikkel had a shitty birthday.”

Mikkel turned his face toward Arthur. “Is that the first time you’ve said my actual name?”

One shoulder lifted slightly, but whether it was a shrug or just an adjustment or even an affectionate gesture was impossible to say. “I dunno. Probably. I’m fucked up like that.”

“I’m fucked up, too,” Mikkel said, and it was a relief.

Green eyes flicked up to him, abruptly shy even as the rest of him stayed close, brazen and lovely as the sun’s brilliance above.

When they kissed, everything inside Mikkel went quiet. This was the shift he’d felt in the willows, the transformation. He was still himself, but he was _real._ The background noise and sideline issues of so-called normal life faded away. None of that mattered. What he looked like, what he didn’t have, his past stumbles and breaks, it was all just chaff. Arthur’s lips pressing hungrily against his shucked all the extra away until he was just this, here, this, now. His hand came up, cupped the soft line of Arthur’s jaw that had been driving him mad for hours. Arthur’s hand was on his hip, fingers spread over half of the V-line Mikkel had murdered himself in the gym to achieve. They tilted toward each other and the plates on their laps crashed together, clinging by some miracle of gravity, but Mikkel barely opened his eyes long enough to see it before he squeezed Arthur’s thigh with his other hand because nothing mattered and he swallowed the wolf’s curses and kissed him harder and nothing mattered and he trailed his hand down and felt the cold silver of Arthur’s tags but it was fine because nothing—

Below them, in Arthur’s room, Mikkel’s phone buzzed on his desk.

He pulled back. _Lukas._

Everything mattered so fast it hurt.

“Here. Can you hold this?” Mikkel said, pushing his plate into Arthur’s hands and climbing back down into the window so fast he nearly fell. Adrenaline shook his hands as he clawed up his phone. One notification for one message. _Lukas._ He had to try three times to put his password in, his thumbs were made so clumsy by his anticipation.

“Excuse me?” Arthur produced several compound swears as he swung awkwardly down into the window and nearly tore the blind down by accident. “ _God_ damn it. You can go get those plates whenever’s convenient for you.” He tossed the forks onto his desk with a harsh clatter. “Mind telling me what the hell is wrong with you?”

Mikkel stared at him, phone lowering in his hand. He’d acted without thinking. That meant that his genuine, unfiltered self was an asshole. _I’m fucked up, too._

Arthur’s gaze flicked down to the screen, then narrowed. His face closed off, sickened. “Oh, great. That’s great, Densen. That makes me feel so good about myself. Truly, thank you. I hadn’t yet filled my self-loathing quota for the day. What would I do without you?”

Mikkel locked his phone. “I’m sorry. Okay? I’m an idiot.” He felt way more disintegrated than his voice sounded, which only made it worse. He cared, and he needed Arthur to believe that, but he didn’t even believe himself. Shame bloomed inside him, a fresh plot of diseased blossoms. “I shouldn’t have done it. I wasn’t thinking. I was stupid. I just . . . it felt right at the time. I just wanted to do something that felt right for once.”

Arthur stared at him. His posture was the painfully tense pose of a predator caught in fight or flight. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Mikkel stared back, lost. He knew it was feeding the fire to ask which part Arthur was referring to, but he genuinely didn’t know.

“ _I shouldn’t have done it_ ,” Arthur spat. “Shouldn’t have done what, pray tell? Left me up there just because _that_ texted you? Or kissed me and then realized, crumbs, you could’ve just waited a minute and your worries would’ve sorted themselves out?”

Mikkel opened his mouth, but it was a lost cause. There were no words he could use to save himself, because Arthur was right about both of those things. Mikkel was acting like a dick, and, no matter how good it felt to kiss Arthur, it was a complication.

“Dear oh dear,” Arthur said in a condescending coo. “It seems we’ve gotten ourselves tangled up in a love triangle. Terribly dramatic. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but we haven’t been thirteen years old in quite some time, and it’s generally advisable to not suck on someone’s tongue when your crush still makes you wet.”

Mikkel waited a breath, then tried, “I already said I’m sorry. I’m not lying to you. I . . . I want . . .” He saw fresh flames ignite in Arthur’s eyes and let his head hang. “I don’t know what I want.”

He waited, but the heat never touched him. When he looked up again, Arthur was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, hurt raw in his gaze and his voice when he spoke: “You’re just now figuring that out. Fuck me. You’re right. You are an idiot.”

Mikkel couldn’t think of anything else to say. He hadn’t ever considered Arthur as an obtainable thing until just minutes ago; the fact that he, Arthur Kirkland, actually wanted to let Mikkel have him was . . . a compliment? An ego stroke. A change of perspective. A call from the void. A deal with the devil.

For once, Arthur expected more of him, and he had failed to deliver.

“I think,” he said quietly, “you should get out of my room.”

His voice was small now, his body turned away. Mikkel realized he was not so much crossing his arms as hugging himself, and he wanted nothing more than to put his arms around him, offer consolation, but he was a blade who couldn’t keep himself from cutting people. He retreated from the room and closed the door behind him without a word.

There, in the fading evening light of the hall, buffeted by the laughter from downstairs and the silence from behind the door, he checked his phone. A wall of text greeted him.

 _I apologize for my delayed response. I thought I needed time alone, but I think what I really need is something to take my mind off everything. So I’m back at work, and I think it’s helping me. But you helped me too, and I won’t forget that. I’m so used to doing things on my own, I forgot what it was like to be supported by someone. I believe you will find who did it. I have faith in you. Thank you for always having faith in me. When this is over, when the time comes, I’d like to talk. In person._ _Until then._

He read it three times, then leant back against the wall, spine-shoulders-skull, and closed his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the best line of this chapter was brought to you by ajr's song 'turning out' which you should all go listen to along with the rest of their music xo
> 
> (also I sneakily removed the Major Character Death tag because it was inappropriate so yeah x3)

It must have been at least two hours before Arthur heard a knock on his door. He ignored it, preferring to stay in the dark and see nothing but blue, blue, blue eyes. Taunting him and haunting him. He supposed he was reaping what he’d sewn; he’d wished for either him or Mikkel to be right, and here he was. Getting attached to people only ended in heartbreak. Alfred? Dead in the ground of a state Arthur had never been to. Marianne? In love with his eldest brother of all the—ahem—people. And now Mikkel, who . . . Arthur didn’t even know what to make of it. He didn’t think it came from selfishness, but that was somehow worse. It wasn’t like he’d made out with him under sufferance. There was a lot to like about him: determination, passion, sense of humor, and a youthfulness that cropped up when Arthur least expected it. Perhaps that’s what this was, just more of the same naiveté he’d shown before. Impulsiveness. Arthur was no stranger to acting without a plan, but he didn’t go around claiming to be the level-headed one.

The knock repeated, forceful this time.

“Fuck off!” Arthur said, just shy of a shout. His throat was hoarse from swallowing sobs. He gave Mister Bunny a small squeeze— _squee-eak_ —but it didn’t make him feel any better. Home could only work so much magic on him, or he would’ve stayed here forever.

“Mum would make you wash your mouth out for that,” Scott remarked on the other side of the door.

Arthur stilled. He’d spoken to Dylan in the barn and teased Liam about his earrings, but he hadn’t yet spoken to Scott outside of the brief chat with the girls. It was always different with him. Dylan and Liam were easy to get along with provided you knew where their boundaries were, but Scott went out of his way to get angry. _Pick up your clothes. Chew your food. Drive the speed limit._ Dylan said it was because he was taking the parental role to heart; Liam said it was because he was compensating for something. But those two had always been pliable, far more lighthearted than Arthur.

Scott had also taken the role that Arthur had rejected, so perhaps that said it all right there.

“Are you going to let me in?”

“Let yourself in.”

He watched Scott’s feet—he never wore socks if he could help it, sick bastard—make their way across the floor to him. To his credit, he sounded patient. “Are you going to come out of there?”

To his detriment, the patience just irked Arthur more. “I thought I might just live here, actually.” He barely fit under the bed, but that was the whole point. The dark closeness was a comfort. “It’s not so bad. Lots of space for parking. I see no one’s cleaned under here in the past several months, so I’ll live off dust and dirt. Very slimming diet, you should—”

“Arthur.”

He fell silent and tucked Mister Bunny under his chin. He missed when it was only other people’s problems that upset him. He could be objective, then. What was this? An imbroglio, with him at the center of the fuckery.

“He’s gonna sleep on the couch,” Scott said after a pause. The mattress creaked as he lowered himself onto the bed. “So you don’t have to worry about him coming back in here.”

Arthur hadn’t been worried about that. He’d been more worried what he himself would do after he let Mikkel in. Hit him again? Kiss him again? He didn’t know what would be worse.

“I’m glad you came back,” Scott remarked offhand. “We all are. Better late than never.”

There wasn’t anything to say to that. It was a gentle hug to his heart, but any touch hurt right now.

Scott’s weight shifted a little; he was leaning his elbows on his knees, probably. “I wasn’t planning on this being an epilogue.”

“Monologue,” Arthur corrected. “Mum wouldn’t be pleased.”

“Whatever the fuck,” Scott replied agreeably. “Mum didn’t bother me about grammar.”

“Just semantics.” Arthur placed Mister Bunny carefully in his mouth and said, muffled, “Move your hooves.”

Scott shifted over and Arthur crawled out from under the bed. He joined his brother on the mattress and rested Mister Bunny beside his pillow. The pillow Mikkel had used was still here; Arthur could smell him on it. He thought about putting his arms around it. He imagined holding it in wolf’s jaws and shaking and growling and tearing until all the downy guts came out.

“Now you really look a mess,” Scott said, brushing cobweb from Arthur’s hair.

“It’s my aesthetic,” Arthur told him, ducking away. “Ancient, abandoned, world-weary.”

“What’ll you do when you run out of clever things to say?” Scott asked, with the same knowing look in his eyes their mother used to turn on Arthur. Perhaps Marianne was right about her wisdom then.

“Dunno,” Arthur replied. “Die, probably.”

Scott arched an eyebrow, but not nearly as derisively as he could have. “I’d like to know how you’ve been doing.”

For whatever reason, that was the thing that had him wanting to go back under the bed. He looked at Mister Bunny, because he didn’t trust himself enough to close his eyes and he definitely couldn’t look at Scott if he had any hope of maintaining conversation. “Fine.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Arthur worried at the fray of his jeans. He’d ripped these ones himself, ages ago, but he’d been too tentative to do a good job of it. “Alfred died. Then he stayed dead. So that was bad luck.”

The Scott that ruled over this place a year ago and many years before then would have said _Can’t you take this more seriously? Is that really going to help, Arthur? Would you say that if Mum were here?_ But this Scott, this mysterious creature with deeper creases in his forehead and the corners of his eyes, just sat with him and listened to him and waited.

“Now more people are dead,” Arthur said before he thought about it. “Kids. And there’s God knows what else going on in that city. It’s not even the Warren anymore, if it ever was. It’s a nightmare.”

“You can’t ask for help,” Scott surmised, or perhaps he was mocking Arthur. There was no judgement in his tone, though.

“I don’t see what good it would do.” Arthur let out most of a breath, then stopped. “Well. We did arrest an important one. But the fact that he let it happen is . . .”

 _Concerning._ Except, really, Lars knew what they had on him, which was close to nothing. There was no hard evidence to use in court that the parties were arranged by Lars; simply attending a party with wolfsbane and illegal betting wasn’t something you went to jail for. Some of the wolves would do time, some would be fined, but it was entirely possible for Lars to walk away with no skin off his teeth at all. And he knew it.

Arthur shook his head, then put it into his hands. Maybe the killer only wanted Lovino and Emil dead. Or maybe another victim would go missing tonight, and it would become a clockwork carving the city up one ticking hand at a time.

He knew this was the doomsday stuff that wheeled around inside Mikkel’s head, but he was also starting to think maybe he had a point.

Scott put his arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “Do you want advice?”

Arthur blinked up at him, first in shock at the affectionate gesture and then again in shock at the question. “Are you going to give it anyway?”

“Nope.” Scott gave him half a piercing smile, a glimpse to the hellion he was, they all were, growing up here. “I don’t talk to people who aren’t listening anymore. I only help people who want to help themselves.”

And was that the right thing? Faye Kirkland had never sought out her people—patrons, clients, whatever they might wish to be called—when she was the one running this show. Willow Farm never hunted people down, nor did it advertise its services. If people knew, and if they wanted it, they came. But Arthur and Mikkel were seeking, searching, trying to pry the truth out of the city’s locked jaws. Was it the right way? What else were they supposed to do? Wait for the killer to confess? When did _that_ ever happen?

“This,” Arthur said, “is all very dismaying.”

“So you do want advice.”

“I might be too dismayed for it now.”

Scott pushed against him, but he kept the arm around him too. It wasn’t a bad arm, that one. “What’s bothering you most?”

Arthur was not about to sit on this bed and tell his brother about being kissed and dismissed by a Viking.

“All of it,” he said. “Life is bothering me.”

Scott gave him a lightly stern look. _That’s not very constructive, Arthur._ They could both hear Marianne saying it. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps Marianne had only been with Arthur because he was a problem for her to solve. Was that what happened? He felt distinctly unsolved right about now.

“Well,” Scott said, “you can’t sit down and talk to life. You can’t talk to people who’re gone and people you haven’t found yet. So there’s really only one person you can talk to.”

Arthur scowled at how reasonable this was. “I wasn’t the one who fucked up this time. It was him.”

“Did he apologize?”

“Ugh.” Arthur rolled his eyes. “Does it matter? Apologies don’t mean anything. He’s still . . .”

Still going to jump to attention whenever Lukas Bondevik so much as sneezed in his direction; he was probably texting him right now, for God’s sake. Still going to stagger with the weight of his parents’ expectations and mistreatment on his shoulders (and they were really good shoulders, as well, and that just made it worse). Still going to sing and dance for everyone else’s approval—except Arthur’s, which was the only saving grace because he didn’t _want_ Mikkel to seek his approval. He just wanted him to be himself, and happy to be that way. If Arthur could achieve that at least half the time, surely Mikkel could too.

“Maybe they do mean something to him,” Scott said. “Maybe he feels terrible. He looked pretty terrible last time I saw him.”

Arthur could imagine that. Mikkel generally had a bit of a haggard look to him, only worsened by their sleepless night. He’d looked the best Arthur had ever seen him earlier today, bright-eyed and fresh-faced even when he was sweating through physical labor. He wasn’t an outright deceitful person; Arthur knew he hadn’t been _used_ in an actively manipulative way. He wished Mikkel could see his two paths as starkly as Arthur could, but he knew it was a futile hope. He’d been on paths like that before, and it was impossible to see through the fog and bramble until you emerged, rumpled and bleeding, on the other side.

He also felt close to certain that if he left Mikkel to think about this all night, he might be gone come morning. And damn every blond hair on his head to hell, but Arthur didn’t want it to end that way. He’d kept Marianne in his life—more credit to her than to him—and he was unimaginably glad for it. If he ended up saying goodbye to Mikkel, he could probably stomach it, but he wanted to have the chance. He couldn’t bear another thing being ripped from his life.

“Yeah, alright,” he said. “I’ll talk to him.”

Scott looked pleased enough that Arthur was moved to ask, “What happened to you?”

He didn’t have to describe what their interactions had been a year ago. He could’ve pulled out his phone and played the voicemail he’d been skinning himself with for months, the reminder that no matter how much he might want to come home it would be painful because he’d left and one did not just leave the Kirkland family. Only now, after all this time, did he realize he’d never truly left.

“I got old,” Scott replied, with a smile that did not indicate he was upset about it. “I’ll be turning forty, you know.”

“ _Bloody_ hell, are you serious?” Arthur couldn’t believe it until he went through the math, aided by his fingers. “My God. What’s become of us?”

Scott shrugged. “I think we’ve turned out alright, don’t you?”

Arthur glanced ruefully at Mister Bunny. “I think I’m still turning out.”

Scott scuffed a playful hand over Arthur’s hair. “You’ll get there.” He stood up, effortlessly dodging Arthur’s smacking hands. “I didn’t do it on my own, is the thing. You shouldn’t, either.”

Arthur watched him cross the room and suddenly, from nowhere, remembered his brother silhouetted in the light of his slightly ajar doorway, the last thing he saw before he drifted off to sleep when thunderstorms rattled the windows. His mouth wasn’t quite sure of itself for a moment there, so he pressed his lips together hard and swallowed until it passed.

“You really did yourself dirty,” he said finally, “being a dick for so many years.”

Scott’s smirk was knowing, but it didn’t rile Arthur this time. “It’s good to have you back, you little bastard.”

He knocked, once, on the door jamb, then was gone.

Arthur took his time going downstairs. He waited until the house had quieted, everyone having left who was planning to leave and everyone else having gotten ready for bed aside from whoever was tasked with feeding the wolves tonight. He walked the halls slowly, glancing into any open doors and nodding to Liam, returning Marianne’s smile and wave, wishing Dylan’s girls a good night and advising them to keep the barn kitten they’d kidnapped hidden lest Scott send it back to its half-wild home. When he found a bathroom, he went in for a quick shower. After all this time, the crescent moon was still stuck to the wall; Faye had put it there when her boys were little wildcats, nearly impossible to wash even with just Arthur and Liam in the tub at one time. Only one thing could make them behave enough to let her shampoo their hair. _Ready to rinse? Tip your heads back._ Even Scott and Dylan would join in from their bedroom. _Awoooo!_

When Arthur got to the living room, it was silent and dark. The twilight sky didn’t let in much light at all, just enough that Arthur didn’t knock into any furniture—although he was rather confident he could carve a clean path through this house blindfolded. Arthur avoided the floorboard that always creaked and peered over the back of the couch.

Mikkel was asleep in a pose too exaggerated to be feigned: mouth open, arm over his head, one leg hanging off the side of the sofa. Arthur devoted twenty seconds to thinking _well I see you’re in emotional straits it’s a good thing I came down here this is clearly troubling you wake up fucking wake up_ and then just enjoyed looking at him because he’d started off covered by a fleece blanket—it had a coyote on it, which was Liam’s idea of a joke—but now he was effectively shirtless and there was quite a lot on display there. He would’ve figured him to have more chest hair, for starters, but knowing Mikkel he probably shaved it in an attempt to be immaculate or whatever. There was endless loveliness to be found in the places his body met the rest of his body; everywhere a limb connected or a rib cage fell away to abdomen or his throat ski-sloped to join his pecs was a clever miracle of skin. Arthur, peppered as he was, had equal parts hate and love that he could not see a single freckle.

He wondered if he should wake him up. That seemed like something he might do. To have a serious chat about their relationship? That didn’t seem like something he would do.

He didn’t even know what he’d say, if they did talk. Not that he thought having a speech prepared would help, but it really depended on Mikkel—and Lukas—and he hated that. He despised it, in fact, with every fibre of his being as he stood there over Mikkel’s supine body. He loathed that he was the second choice, that his happiness was conditional on the outcome of Mikkel’s infatuation with Bondevik. He wanted to snatch his heart away from this foolishness, but it was too late for that. Mikkel had it, and it was a difficult disease to cure.

So maybe Arthur should just tell him that. _I’m not going to be leftovers. I don’t exist as a waiting room for your dick. Someone else might be fine with that, but I’m not. I’m not putting my life on hold for you._

But that was meaningless, because his life had been on hold anyway, petering out while he did nothing to stop it. Until Mikkel came along.

Maybe something harsher. _Do you really think Lukas will kiss those lips after he knows where they’ve been?_

But that was low, less a home truth and more a personal attack. Lukas was probably just catty, not openly lycophobic. He didn’t necessarily want Mikkel, Arthur thought, but he definitely didn’t want anyone else to have him either.

Perhaps selfless honesty was the answer then. _Regardless of what you did. You’re my friend—I guess, probably, fuck you—and I don’t want you to be a slave to anybody. I don’t want you to be with someone who only likes parts of you. I . . ._

Mikkel stirred. Arthur held his breath.

The side door crashed open and footsteps pounded through the kitchen. The commotion had Mikkel up, hair and eyes wild, and Arthur’s heart hammering his sternum. Scott tore into the living room, but paused long enough to look at them, face contorted into a grimace beyond human agitation.

“She’s gone,” he said, breathless and stricken. “Someone took her.”

This was not a drill.

All hands to deck: Arthur and Mikkel and Scott and Liam and Dylan and Marianne all took to the forest, howling and calling for Faye. Flashlights striped over roots, night-damp grass, flickering reflected eyes. The wolves were in a frenzy; their voices stabbed at the stars, keening high and desperate for leadership. Arthur saw four wolves run straight to Scott, two whimpering and two snarling. He sorted them out with a firm gaze, but he was trembling hard enough that Marianne pressed close to his side and twined their fingertips. Arthur looked— _jealousy, jealousy, jealousy_ —then turned his back on them and sent up another howl.

_Mum. Please._

“Is there a perimeter?” Mikkel asked, sheltering in logic. “A fence?”

Dylan shook his head. “The pack made their own boundaries for their territory. They’ve never wandered. It’s just crown land on all sides. If you go far enough you’d eventually hit another rural road, I think, but . . .”

“ _Far_ isn’t far to a wolf,” Liam remarked grimly.

“She wouldn’t go for no reason,” Scott broke in, adamant. “She would never just _wander._ Someone fucking took her.”

“Who? Who would even know the pack is here?” Dylan rubbed his bare arms against the chill. “And what would they ever have against her?”

“A past client?” Marianne wondered aloud, anguish plain on the half of her face Arthur could see. “Or someone she turned away for some reason?”

“She never turned anyone away,” Scott said. “She helped everyone she could. “She didn’t have any enemies.”

“And where would the car be? We never heard it come or go. Someone would’ve seen lights, something—”

“If they’re her enemy, why wouldn’t they just _kill_ her?”

“Liam!”

“Well? Why would they take—”

“Because that’s what they do.”

They all turned to look at Arthur. Only Mikkel wasn’t confused. He looked at Arthur with cold, apologetic surety.

“This is the same one we’ve been chasing,” Arthur said. He didn’t recognize his own voice, and the wolves he could see shied away from him, flattening their ears at the hints of snarl. “They kidnap the victim, wait thirty hours, then the body turns up. They’re getting good at it. They’ve had practise.”

“God.” Mikkel rubbed at his jaw, something Arthur recognized now as a self-soothe rather than an expression of thought. Blue eyes looked from one person to the next; they finally stopped at Arthur, forlorn and frightened. “Did I lead them to her?”

All eyes went to Mikkel, except Arthur’s. He felt the same dread and horror shuddering through his pack, but he knew better. His eyes went to Scott.

For the Kirkland brothers, emotion was always just under the surface, boiling and burning them. Their feelings were multi-headed, tangled roots of the tree that made each of them. Joy was often tinged by sadness. Worry hedged contentment. Fear bled into anger.

Arthur witnessed this, the darkness filling Scott’s eyes. Then the flashlight dropped from his hand, scattering light over the ghoulish night willows as it bounced, and he lunged at Mikkel. No one else saw it coming, but they wouldn’t have stopped it if they had, Mikkel included. For a picosecond, Arthur considered doing nothing as Scott lit into Mikkel, but that would solve nothing. Mikkel would take the punishment without knowing or caring what it was for. That was not a lesson for him to learn.

Arthur leapt into Scott’s path, shoulders squared. Scott mirrored the dominant posture, a low growl climbing up his throat. A warning. An impatient one. He stepped forward. _Move._

Arthur bared his teeth. Instinct shivered over his skin, fighting the curse of the silver around his neck. He wanted to shift. He itched to shift, to attack, to defend and protect. He stepped back, but he planted himself here, only a stride away from Mikkel, and he glared into Scott’s eyes. _Mine._

Scott ploughed into him. He had thirty pounds on him; Arthur crashed to the ground, but he took Scott down with him. Here was the brother he remembered, fiery eyes and bloodied teeth and fists. Their father, a wolf who’d gotten himself killed before any of them really knew him enough to care, had left each of them with part of himself. He gave Arthur his hair. He gave Liam his name. He gave Dylan his dimples. And he gave Scott his dangerous enthusiasm for fisticuffs.

However, Faye had given her boys large quantities of herself as well, and the biggest gift Arthur had inherited was resilience. Was he getting any good hits on to Scott? Impossible to tell. Was Scott getting good hits on him? Absolutely. Did they hurt? Incredibly. But what was hurt, to Arthur Kirkland? His hands, his face, his bones, his heart. Hurt was the fascia that held him together. He was hemmed with pain, borne of it.

The pack was sacred. He would not let this destroy them.

He put his arms around his brother.

Scott fell silent. He tried to push him away, but they were too twisted together to make sense of it, too close to properly hit. He fell against Arthur and Arthur closed his eyes, taking the burden of him as Scott, unbelievably, cried into his shoulder. No sound, just a few shaky breaths that could’ve been mistaken for panting, but Arthur felt tears soak into his shirt. Pain did not fuel Scott; he hadn’t lost enough yet. For the first time, Arthur hoped he never would.

“I’ll find her,” he whispered, his voice so broken it was nearly inaudible.

Scott’s voice was in no better state. “You have to.”

They were already mostly orphans; they could not become entirely orphans.

With a great bearish surge of motion, Scott pushed to his feet. He didn’t brush any of the dirt or grass from his clothes, nor did he wipe the remnants of tears from his eyes. He just looked fiercely at what remained of his pack, daring them to say anything, and when they stayed silent, he gave his orders.

“Sweep the willows again. Liam and Dylan, go west. Mari and I’ll go east. You two.” Scott’s gaze bored into Mikkel, who ducked his head. “North.”

They broke apart. Any wolves who had sought comfort from them were long gone now, back to their sleeping places among the closer-knit trees. A moment later only Mikkel and Arthur remained. Arthur closed his eyes a moment, feeling every new and old ache pulsing along his body, and when he opened them again Mikkel was offering his hand.

Arthur looked up into his eyes, found only gratitude and guilt, and let him pull him to his feet.

Mikkel lit the way with the flashlight on his phone. Every stride found new frustration burning in Arthur, pain converted efficiently to rage. The killer had not come here because of Mikkel. That made no sense; hurting Faye meant nothing to him, just like Lovino had no emotional connection. Emil was an outlier, a coincidence. The killer wasn’t speaking to Mikkel with these crimes. What had Lars said? _If it’s political, I support it._ Was it political? The representative’s grandson. The brother of a Halfway House doctor. And, now, the woman who’d run a place as an alternative to the city’s system . . . but still one that worked more or less in tune with it. People came here to live as wolves because to live as uncollared humans was illegal. It wasn’t true freedom; Mikkel was right, in that way. Was someone really crazy enough to make a statement like this? But . . .

Mikkel cleared his throat.

Arthur glanced back at him, more vicious than he intended. _“What?”_

Mikkel didn’t say _thank you for keeping your brother from pounding my face in_ or _I’m sorry again for having a one-night stand with your mouth_ or _I’ve done some thinking and you know what you were right about the stuff that matters so let’s solve this once and for all what do you say._

He said, “I thought you told me she wouldn’t come out for strangers.”

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks.

“I did,” he said, numb. “I did tell you that.”

One of the clients? No, they would have heard _something._ Faye would never go willingly with someone like that, and if she’d been tranquilized, muzzled, tied up—the pack would have gone ballistic. There would be signs of struggle somewhere. The wolves would not be upset, they would be beside themselves.

One of Lars’s goons? No, a strange wolf would be seen as even more of a threat than a strange human. There would have been howls, growls, a terrible racket, potentially the body of the intruder left for them to find if Faye didn’t incentivize a peaceful outcome.

Who, then? Who would know the pack was here, know how to find them, know which one was Faye, and know that _she_ would know—

“Gilbert,” Arthur said. “It’s him.”

Faye would remember him from his time here a year ago; even if she didn’t recognize his face or voice, she’d know his scent. A friend of Arthur’s was a friend of hers, and Gilbert had always had an air of authority about him; if he asked her to follow, she probably would. He would know how to get here, even coming from that far rural road. And Arthur knew full well when he got something into his head, he’d get it done. No matter what it took.

“No,” Mikkel said. “It can’t be him.”

Arthur whirled. “Why? Why can’t it be? Because he’s a cop? Because he’s your friend? Or because you, the perfect specimen, would never stoop so low as to be friends with someone capable of all this?”

Mikkel’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t about me. And I know you knew him longer than I have, but what reason does he have to do any of this?”

“Who says he needs a reason?” But even as Arthur said this, he knew it was wrong. Gilbert Beilschmidt was a lot of things—had been a very good part of Arthur’s life, in fact, but not a good enough one to seek him out after he’d pushed him away—but he wasn’t a fanciful creature. He did what he was told. He did not color outside the lines. He would have a reason for all this, but Arthur wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. “I’m not wasting any more time. He has her. I’m going.”

Mikkel stepped in his way. He should’ve been softer in the glow of his phone, but it made him skeletal, all angles and deep eye sockets from which blue eyes peered distrustfully. “No. Don’t move too fast. If he sees you getting close, he might panic and—”

Resentment bittered his tongue. “Oh, so it’s _go go go we’re on a time limit_ when the victim is Lukas’s brother, but when it’s a wolf you don’t care? Slow and steady wins the race?”

Mikkel shook his head, starting to lose patience. “That is not what I said. But he did it, if it was him, while we were all here. That’s cocky, and cocky means dangerous. I don’t want you to go there alone.”

“No, you don’t want me to go there at all.”

Mikkel looked down at him. He did not disagree.

Arthur’s voice was uneven, but he didn’t care. “You’ve spent this whole time running headfirst into these messes, and I’ve been following right after you. And now that we actually know who it is, you’re shying away? Really? Have you given up?”

Mikkel exhaled. “No. But—it’s not even your case. I can’t let you put yourself at risk.”

Arthur met his gaze. “Then come with me.”

Mikkel turned his face slightly away. That was all the answer Arthur needed.

“Fine,” he said. “I don’t want you there, anyway. Save yourself for Bondevik. Live your cookie cutter life. If I die, don’t bother with a headstone or anything, just bury me in your garden. I’ll grow you some nice poison ivy.”

Mikkel grabbed for him. “Arthur, please, just—”

But he was already gone, making for the house. Mikkel didn’t follow. Liam never locked his SUV. Arthur drove with one hand and fucked with the radio until metal screamed out. His heart pumped something toxic as he left his pack behind for the second time in his life.

The Bloodhound was on the hunt.


	10. Chapter 10

Mikkel was driving.

He was paying attention to driving. He wished he’d learned to drive a stick shift; that would give him more to worry about. But when he only had to keep the car between the yellow and white lines, when the road was nearly empty and he knew Arthur was out there not paying attention to speed limit signs, his thoughts were free to wander.

Failure.

Arguably worse than he’d ever failed before, because he just kept doing it. Arthur was hurting, and Mikkel’s only response was to stand still and do nothing. Arthur was running off to find Gilbert, and Mikkel was moving in the opposite direction. 

He’d only met up with the others at the farm long enough to tell them where Arthur had gone, and where he was now going. Scott had turned away in disgust, but Marianne had watched Mikkel. She had the same knowing look she’d turned on him since the first time she saw him, but Mikkel didn’t know what it was she knew. Maybe he should’ve grabbed her, gotten down on his knees and begged her. He didn’t know himself; could anyone else really have answers for his actions?

He wanted Lukas. He’d wanted him for months. He had beauty, success, stability. He was perfect.

He wanted Arthur. He’d only known him a few days. He was a nightmare.

How could someone feel like a bad choice and the right choice at the same time?

Mikkel parked his car in his usual spot at the police station, even though there were plenty of spaces closer to the door. The likeliest scenario was Gilbert was asleep right now, and Arthur would get to his place, wake him up, and they would talk. Maybe they’d fight. Maybe they’d reconcile. When he found nothing, what would Arthur do? Collapse, leave an old friend with the choice of picking up the pieces? Or hold himself together until he was alone again, then . . . what?

There was, of course, an unlikely scenario wherein Gilbert was the killer and right now Arthur was in grave danger. What was the right decision? Send backup right away? What if that provoked him into hurting someone?

It couldn’t be him. It just couldn’t be. He was the kindest officer here, the one who’d reached out to Mikkel when he was new, the one he’d shared plenty of drinks and laughs. He’d been a friend to Arthur, too; Mikkel had seen how happy he looked in the photograph on the wall. To go to all of this trouble, for what? It made no sense. It couldn’t be him.

And if Mikkel were to go to his door with Arthur on this blood quest . . . He had precious few bridges left to burn.

Mikkel stepped through the cold of night—he should’ve been tired, in the dark, but after sleeping all day he felt like a guest in his own life, floating along without expending any energy—into the station. Fluorescents buzzed at him. The desk sergeant glanced up from his phone but didn’t offer a greeting. Mikkel didn’t either.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing here. It was just his stand-by; if he was in the city, and he wasn’t at his apartment, he was going to work. He checked the locker room, tugged half-heartedly at the latch on Gilbert’s locker. What would he find even if he did open it? An overflow of papers, diabolical plans spilling out across the floor? Of course not. This wasn’t a movie.

He was starting to feel ill. He texted Gilbert.

_Hey I know this is weird but are you up?_

It was ten p.m., so Gilbert was probably awake, unless he’d just been on a hellish shift.

 _Weird._ Yes, it was weird that he was texting the man he’d considered his best friend to ask if he was a murderer. That was rather odd. A queer happening. Strange.

No response. Maybe he was working out. He worked out some evenings as well as in the morning. He was a machine. He’d mastered the kind of self-improvement Mikkel had clawed his way toward and never quite managed to reach. Did he have these worries too, just kept them hidden? Did he look in the mirror and see something he couldn’t stand?

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Mikkel spun. Berwald stood in the doorway, in a dark overcoat rather than a uniform. Mikkel had never seen him in civilian clothes; he looked older, or perhaps just aged whereas in the chief’s dress he seemed timeless. This was the truth of him, though: he was human, he got tired, he . . . was he smiling faintly?

“When I told you to take the day off,” Berwald said, “I meant the night, as well.”

Mikkel stepped away from the lockers, into the center of the little room. He felt too big for this place all of a sudden. Was he growing? In a world where Berwald could look so human—so _fallible_ —anything was possible. “I know, sir. But I . . .”

Berwald looked at him, watchful as the wolves and just as difficult to interpret.

Mikkel didn’t have anything to say for himself. “I didn’t expect to see you here, either.”

Berwald turned away, and for a second Mikkel thought he might just give up as Arthur had said, but then he glanced over his shoulder to indicate Mikkel should follow. He did, hastily.

“I come here on nights I can’t sleep,” Berwald told him as they made their slow way down the hall. “I know them by now. I don’t bother trying to toss and turn. I just come here and read.”

Mikkel blinked. He couldn’t really picture Berwald cracking a novel, but then again he couldn’t really picture him interacting with a small child either and he had one of those. “What do you read?”

By way of response, Berwald walked on, started down a staircase. Into the basement they went, to the vaguely musty records room. The light was indeed on and a file was open on one of the tables. Mikkel’s gaze flicked past the graphic photos to the date: nearly a decade ago.

“I was the detective,” Berwald said. “Only one victim. I had closed cases on nine homicides before this one. I thought it would be easy. But it went cold. I never made an arrest.”

Mikkel walked around to the other side of the table; the pictures swam into nothing shapes, upside-down. “Has there been any follow-up? Any assumed to be killed by this guy?”

Berwald shook his head, still with that faintly amused glint to his icy eyes. “No. It went cold. That was all. One death. Small. But it was big to me, and to her family. I can’t forget about it. I don’t think we should. But we can’t dwell, either. It was my tenth case, but there was an eleventh after that, and a twelveth. You have to keep going.”

Despite everything, Mikkel felt weight lifting from his shoulders; he tugged it back down. Without that, he didn’t know what he was. He could float away. “But how do you forgive yourself for that? Someone died and there was no justice for them or for their family. And if you’re the one supposed to be finding it, doesn’t it become your fault?”

Berwald looked at him steadily. “Is it your fault that Lovino Vargas and Emil Bondevik are dead?”

_Yes._

He saw Marianne’s eyes, his father’s eyes, Arthur’s eyes. All looking at him, waiting to see what he would do next. They all had their reasons, but they were all similar in one way: they were reactive. Ready to praise him or blame him or accept him for his actions—actions that he always took. He’d told Marianne he’d done his best, and that was the truth. He’d raced against the clock, he’d fought the person who might be his only friend, he’d destroyed himself. It hadn’t been enough, but . . . it was all he had.

His parents were terrible. Lovino and Emil were dead. That was the way things had turned out. What mattered now was not cringing away from his mistakes and reshaping himself into something impossible, and what mattered now was not _nothing_ and throwing everything away. There would always be consequences. The most important thing was what he did with himself now, how he moved forward, how he kept going.

“No,” he said, soft.

Berwald’s brow quirked slightly.

“No,” he said, like he meant it. “It’s not my fault.”

Berwald nodded. He placed pensive fingertips against the case file, then closed it and returned it to its box. When he straightened again, a hand pressed into the small of his back, he seemed calmer than Mikkel had ever seen him. “I’m going to go home now. Is there anything you needed to tell me?”

Mikkel looked at him. He looked back, expression completely uncomplicated. What would it be like, Mikkel wondered, to have such pure emotions? Such a baseline of normalcy. Then again, though . . . he’d never been _normal._ He’d just gotten better and better at pretending.

“I wanted to tell you I was sorry,” Mikkel found himself saying. “For letting them die.”

Berwald considered him curiously. “I’m not their family. I didn’t lose them.”

“I know.” Mikkel couldn’t believe how horrid his throat felt, almost painfully full of sadness. “I just wanted to apologize.”

Berwald stared at him for a long moment. Then he stepped over, placed a broad hand on Mikkel’s shoulder, and told him in his slow, low way, “No one can be perfect. Forgive yourself for that.”

Blue eyes looked into blue eyes and Mikkel had to fight to swallow. He was ten years old, and then he was here again, nodding and clearing his throat. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Have a good night.”

Berwald just gave his shoulder a pat and walked placidly from the room.

Mikkel let himself feel, for ten glorious seconds, like everything was okay.

Then, fortified, he turned to look at the rows of shelves and the boxes they held. Case files and evidence, an organized archive in this cavernous basement. He looked at the sleeping, ancient computer in the corner. If he recalled correctly from his orientation, it had access to an index of death records, among other things.

_Gilbert. Ludwig. What are the chances?_

Seven minutes later, he found the truth in black and white.

DECEDENT’S LEGAL NAME

**LUDWIG A. BEILSCHMIDT**

SEX

**MALE**

AGE

**26**

EVER IN ARMED FORCES?

**NO**

WHERE DEATH OCCURRED

**SILVER LININGS HALFWAY HOUSE**

METHOD OF DISPOSITION

**BURIAL**

MARITAL STATUS AT TIME OF DEATH

**NEVER MARRIED**

FATHER’S NAME

**ALDRICH W. BEILSCHMIDT**

INFORMANT’S NAME

**GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT**

RELATIONSHIP TO DECEDENT

**BROTHER**

**CAUSE OF DEATH**

**ACUTE BLOOD LOSS**

_due to (or as a consequence of)_

**MULTIPLE LACERATIONS**

SIGNIFICANT CONDITIONS CONTRIBUTING TO DEATH

**SILVER POISONING**

WAS AN AUTOPSY PERFORMED?

**NO**

DEATH DECLARED BY

**LUKAS BONDEVIK**

TIME OF DEATH

**11:48 P.M.**

DEATH PUBLICIZED

**6:09 A.M.**

And the date of death, right beside Lukas’s graceful signature, was exactly six months ago today.

Mikkel sprinted out of the room, swiping off the light with one hand and frantically dialing Arthur’s number with the other. _Pick up, pick up, pick up._ His head swam and his heart raced and he was sick with adrenaline, but one truth remained clear inside him.

He could not fail this time.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To celebrate my continued survival and to make up for the last chapter being so short, have Arthur's climax x3

Arthur was driving.

Not drinking or smoking; his time without a collar had cured him of that. Just driving. Fast. Very fast. Far surpassing the speed limit in one place, which sent the contents of the SUV careening from one side of it to the other at every corner. Faster than Liam had ever asked this car to go, certainly. Arthur was not generally a speed demon in the sense he liked to get places quicker than everyone else; it was usually for the thrill of this, of hurtling down a hill and feeling that lift of inertia and gravity and holy physics at the bottom, of tearing through a turn and being unsure for just a second there if the tires would maintain their grip. He was worse for it in the winter. Black ice, a terror for most, was a treat to the devil-may-care id within Arthur Kirkland—arguably, the worst of him.

That was not the Arthur Kirkland driving right now.

This was the Bloodhound. Factually, the worst of him.

No black ice. No traffic. No cats or raccoons wandering across the road.

There could be no interruptions.

He thought he caught a glimpse of a patrol cruiser parked behind a hedge, a half-hearted attempt at stealth. He did not slow down. He would not be pulled over tonight.

No sirens wailed, no red-blue lights flashed into the night. Perhaps it wasn’t a cop car after all.

This was a night for monsters.

Faster, faster.

He knew where Gilbert lived. He’d been there before; the last time was for a weekend barbecue, pedestrian and domestic as anything. Matthew had been there, getting sunburnt in shorts and a tank top, and Alfred too. Arthur could see him plain as day, lounging on a lawn chair beside him, slathering his hamburger with ketchup and, inevitably, dripping it all over himself. _Ha, oops._ Inside, minutes later, Alfred at the sink, his shirt in his hands, scrubbing the stains. _Does it look any better?_ Miles and miles of golden skin. _Hey, did you have Mattie’s lemonade? He puts lemon slices in it. I eat 'em, he gets mad. Try one?_ Sweet and sour on his tongue, citrus and summer on his lips, Alfred’s thumb wiping a droplet of juice from his chin so he could taste it himself. _Mmm. Do you like it?_

He liked it.

He was never allowed to keep things he liked.

Scott scorned him, over and over. _This is why you can’t have nice things._

Arthur parked crookedly behind Gilbert’s car, blocking him in. When he turned off the car and opened the door, the silence that greeted him was otherworldly. He heard crickets, muffled game show rackets, distant dogs barking at more distant sounds: nighttime suburbia. He did not hear screaming, scratching, howling. Nothing to indicate this little house, identical to the other hundred little houses surrounding it, was harboring a victim of a kidnapping.

Arthur pounded the door with the side of his fist.

He wanted to pace on this front step, but he didn’t. He felt adrenaline quiver its way through his veins, all the way down to the tips of his fingers and toes—and then he imagined Faye locked up, bound, _muzzled_ and fresh hatred lit every taught fuse inside him. He was burning from both ends and he was waiting and waiting and

the door opened.

Gilbert looked down at him. Jeans and a sweater. Hair half-rumpled, like he’d just been nodding off on the sofa. Blinking in surprise. “Oh. Uh. Hello.”

Arthur’s hands were molten. “Where is she?”

Gilbert’s brow furrowed, but his eyes—they widened, just a little. Some wolves could learn to lie, but this was Gilbert Beilschmidt. Whatever had become of him, to a _wolf_ , he was not cut out for this.

Arthur surged into him, pushing him back until he hit a wall. Their legs stumbled against a rattling coat rack, but nothing fell. Not yet. “Do not. Fuck. With me. _Where. Is. She._ ”

A lot of different things could have happened in that moment. Any seemed just as likely as another. They stood on a knife edge.

Gilbert leaned in close, staring into Arthur with those pigmentless eyes. His face was a cold, hard thing. “That doesn’t work on me, Kirkland.”

Neatly, he removed Arthur from him and held him at bay while he closed the front door. Arthur’s collar chafed, struggling to contain the fury boiling inside him. The wolf snarled within. He itched to attack, dig his teeth into Gilbert’s skin until he tasted blood. He shoved Gilbert’s arm from him and nearly shook with rage when Gilbert calmly walked away.

“Do you want a beer?” Gilbert asked over his shoulder. “I just opened a bottle myself.”

Arthur could not believe Gilbert turned his back on him. A submissive wolf would never turn his back on a dominant one. A predator would never turn his back on something he viewed as a threat.

_Cocky son of a bitch._

He didn’t want to step deeper into the house, because he did not fancy being led anywhere under Gilbert’s order rather than his own, but he needed to be able to see him. He remembered this kitchen. He’d stood where Gilbert stood now when Alfred sucked on lemon juice that had just touched Arthur’s mouth.

“I’m not interested in games,” Arthur said. He was happy to hear his voice come out steadily; it was a little raspy, but there was nothing to be done about that after all the calling for Faye and not-crying for Mikkel. “And when I knew you, you weren’t either. So I suggest we skip over all this fucking play and go straight to the part where you tell me where she is.”

Gilbert turned to him from the fridge.

Arthur snatched the beer bottle from his hand and smashed it into the sink.

Gilbert closed the fridge blandly. “There was no need for that.”

“Emphasis,” Arthur snapped. “I will not be asking again.”

Gilbert brushed a few flecks of glass down into the basin and leant against the counter. “What will you do? Tell me. If I don’t cooperate with you. What, exactly, will you do to make that happen? What do you have the power to do in order to get what you want?”

But Arthur had never had the power to get what he wanted.

He reached for the flames, but they were flickering out; Gilbert had never struggled to wield logic as a deadly weapon. “I know you took her,” he said, and felt his face warm when his voice came out small. _Fuck. Fuck._ “I don’t give a fuck what happens to me. I’ll do whatever I have to do. I’ll rip you open and take a confession out.”

“That sounds impressive.” Gilbert crossed his arms over his chest. “Give it a try.”

Arthur stared at him, taken aback. This had never happened before.

Gilbert smirked, blatantly pleased. “Awful feeling, isn’t it. Helplessness.”

Arthur threw his arms out. “Really? This is fun for you? This is how you wanted to spend your fucking night? _Fucking_ with me after I explicitly—you know what, fuck that, I’m too fucking pissed off for it.” He pointed at Gilbert and pretended not to notice that his hand was shaking. “Tell me where she is. No games, no toying, and no fucking monologues.”

Gilbert’s face went hard again. “I watched two kids die this week. I think I’ve earned a monologue.”

Arthur went very still. _He admitted it._ Odds he was going to turn himself in? Nil. _He thinks I’m not leaving here alive._ Cold crawled down Arthur’s spine, from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. He hadn’t really thought, when he told Mikkel he might die tonight, that he was being serious.

He had his knife. He had his resilience. He would not be afraid.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Gilbert said, scowling now. “You just said you knew I took Faye. Was there some part of you that hoped you were wrong?”

_Yes._

Arthur gave him nothing. No sudden moves.

“Well, you were right. And, just for the record, I didn’t want my night to go like this, no. I would have preferred to just live my life the way I was. I was happy.” His eyes narrowed. “But that was taken from me. So. This is the world I live in now. Welcome to it.”

Arthur’s hands wanted to rub his arms, shoulders wanted to duck, gaze wanted to drop away. He forced himself to remain as he was. Becoming a small, harmless thing would not protect him. In fact, with that look in Gilbert’s eyes, it might do the opposite. He had his collar on, but that meant nothing tonight. _Monster, monster._

When it became apparent Arthur wasn’t going to prompt him, Gilbert went on by his own volition. “I didn’t intend for anyone to find out it was me, but I’m sort of glad you did. I doubt anyone else will put the pieces together, so it’s good to get to talk about it. I’m not a vengeful person—not for myself—but when you do something out of revenge, it’s more satisfying when people know that’s what it is, you know?”

Arthur inclined his head, slightly, slowly.

“Relax,” Gilbert said, but he was still obviously enjoying the wariness. “Sit down, if you want.”

Arthur did not sit down.

Gilbert gave a little _suit yourself_ shrug and continued, “My father told me to take care of my little brother. He told me that when I was just a kid myself, and he kept telling me that until he died. My whole life, I knew I had to protect my brother, no matter what. And when we got older and I realized he wasn’t like the other kids, I knew I had to take even more care of him. He was very smart, but he got overwhelmed easily. He would yell and kick and bite when he got upset. A lot of his teachers couldn’t handle him. He didn’t have any friends at school. But I got him through it. I did everything I could for him. It was exhausting, but I did it.”

Arthur thought of Liam helping him tie his shoes, Dylan teaching him to ride a pony, Scott watching over all of them. It was much easier to believe Gilbert capable of loving this secret brother than of murdering two teen boys.

“Then he grew up,” Gilbert said, finally looking away from Arthur as dolor overcame ire. “A kid having a tantrum is a lot different than a grown man. He started getting violent. It wasn’t his fault. I tried to . . .” He shook his head. “The worst thing was his collar. He couldn’t stand the feeling of it around his neck. Can you blame him? I hate the fucking things too. But what was I supposed to do? He didn’t want to be stuck in my house all day. He wanted independence. So I set him up in a trailer on the edge of the Warren where no one would mind if he lived without a collar, and so long as he could live with his dogs there away from people he was happy.”

Arthur’s stomach twisted. _Ludwig._ That much made sense now. But . . .

“I visited him when I could, but that wasn’t much. You remember how it was back then.” Gilbert glanced at him, and despite everything, it was almost like they _were_ back then, having a regular conversation after their shift. “We were all busy with work.”

Arthur gave another tiny nod. He hadn’t minded being stuck with Alfred day in and day out, but it had been tiring. That fall was almost like this one, in fact, the city turned into a hedgehog’s back, bristling with prickly bastards everywhere you looked. An infestation that had, evidently, never been exterminated.

“One day Ludwig must’ve gotten upset or maybe just bored, because he shifted. I think he just wanted to run around with his dogs, but someone reported him. They called the LCO. He was violent when they tried to restrain him, so he ended up wounded himself. They took him to the Halfway House, and he called me once he’d shifted back to tell me he’d been detained. This was at ten.”

Arthur looked at him. The wolf in his chest scraped at his ribs, whining in unease.

Gilbert’s lips pulled into an unfunny smile. “He told me he was fine, they’d hurt him with silver but he was all stitched up, he was fine. Then he said that they told him he could get released quicker if he helped them with something. Volunteer work, right?”

Arthur felt as though his insides had begun to devour themselves, or perhaps to just collapse inward like a dilapidated building. Was there any part of this city not corrupt?

“I told him not to bother with any of it,” Gilbert said. His voice had a sick lightness to it, acidic beneath the breathy veneer. “I was still paying off my loans then, and paying his rent too, so things were tight, but I told him I’d be able to bail him out by the end of the week. As soon as my paycheck came, I’d get him out, I told him. He said maybe he’d still try to do the volunteer project. I knew I should’ve tried harder, gotten him to promise not to do it, but I was so tired. All I wanted to do was go to bed. So I just told him I’d talk to him tomorrow, and he said goodnight.”

Gilbert pushed away from the counter and unfolded his arms. Arthur tensed.

“Six the next morning,” Gilbert said, “I got a call from Bondevik saying he was dead.”

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

“I tried going to Vargas, but did they have any interest in whether wolves lived or died in his city?” Gilbert stepped closer to Arthur, the predatory hardness returning to his eyes. “Of course not. The whole system is designed so that as long as we have collars around our necks, it doesn’t matter if our hearts are beating.” He took another step, then another, until he was close enough Arthur could smell the beer on his breath. “I’m so tired of it.”

Arthur tipped up his chin, refusing to tuck his tail. Of course Lovino and Emil would have gone along with a police officer. Trust was such a deadly disease. “So you’re punishing Vargas and Bondevik. Fine. What does that have to do with Faye?”

Gilbert didn’t react for a handful of seconds. Then he scoffed, incredulous. “You don’t even remember?” He loomed, impossibly close. “Who do you think detained him?”

Finally, he knew why the trailer was so oddly familiar: he had been there, except _he_ hadn’t, the Bloodhound had, the coarse streamlined version of himself that came after he chiselled away his heart and left it in a pile of bloody tissue on Matthew’s doorstep. He’d been so strung out back then, fresh off Alfred’s murder, blood still staining his own hands, that all of his life blurred together—and that was how he’d wanted it, muddied to the point of zero recognition. Had he been the one to kill Berlitz, or Ivan, or someone else? It revolted him. He marveled at how he couldn’t recall the dogs or even what Ludwig looked like, just the vaguely familiar exterior of the trailer, maybe a glimpse of the van pulling up beside it. Could he picture Ivan stepping out? Of course, but he’d seen that so many times in so many places it was impossible to tell if it was memory or fantasy.

He knew it was a lost cause, but he still tried to tell the truth. “I’m sor—”

Gilbert propelled him backward, lifted him right off his feet, slammed him into the fridge so hard the appliance thundered against the wall and Arthur’s skull jarred against the freezer.

“No, actually,” Gilbert said, lower than any human voice should’ve been. It was gravel beneath tires, branches grating together in the wind, flint cracking sparks into fire. “No, you don’t get to just apologize. If what I wanted was an apology, I wouldn’t have done all this. You saying sorry won’t bring him back.”

Arthur clambered for footing with the toes of his boots and lifted his head sharply when Gilbert’s hand moved from his arm to his neck. “This won’t, either,” he forced out, knowing he should have focused on his breathing. _Survival. Slow your heart rate. You don’t need a deep breath. You aren’t dying. Survival._

But there was a mirror over the sink he could see their reflections in, and Gilbert strangling Arthur did not look like survival.

Gilbert tilted his head a bit, like he could see Arthur’s point. “Mm. But it’ll be even.”

Part of Arthur wanted to point out there was a big difference between defending and avenging. Part of Arthur wanted to knee Gilbert in the balls and try to get the upper hand. Part of Arthur wanted to grab onto his wrists and beg him to let him go, please, just let him go. Part of Arthur wanted to bargain with him, trade his life for his mother’s. In that moment, he wasn’t sure which of them would win out.

Then his phone rang.

This gave them both pause; they had not expected such an interruption. Gilbert let Arthur drop back to the floor but kept the harsh fingers around his throat as he used his free hand to retrieve the phone from Arthur’s pocket. They both looked at the caller ID.

_Detective._

“Mikkel?” Gilbert guessed. “Does he know you’re here?”

Arthur nodded, as much as he could. He couldn’t see any use in lying. It didn’t matter, anyway; the last thing he wanted was Mikkel here. He had nothing to do with this. He was beyond this. But part of Arthur wanted . . .

“Answer it,” Gilbert said, releasing Arthur and holding out the phone. “Tell him you were wrong.”

Arthur fought his body’s instinct to take breath after breath and instead only hesitantly took the chiming phone. He answered the call and, with Gilbert watching him mere inches away, said, “Hello?”

That as his greeting rather than _yeah?_ should have been cause for concern in itself, but Mikkel didn’t say anything about that. “Arthur? Thank God. Are you there yet?”

The relief in his voice and the familiarity of the timbre—the wolf within Arthur howled for this, for friend, for pack. He was alone here, vulnerable. He had made a grave mistake. Sure, he’d been right, but what was the good of that if he wound up dead and didn’t even find Faye? He’d overestimated himself. He’d thought he could do this himself, and maybe there was a chance, a tiny chance he still could, but . . .

“Don’t involve him in this,” Gilbert whispered, a rumble of warning beneath the words.

Arthur thought of Mikkel’s fists battering him, arms rescuing him, lips soothing him. The shock of his smile, the reward of his laugh, the possibility of his eyes, so very, very blue. He didn’t deserve any of this. The last time Arthur had led a partner, it had been to his death. But the words echoed in his head. Not Scott’s: _I didn’t do it alone._ Not Marianne’s: _Stop putting yourself in danger._ Not even Mikkel’s just before he’d left him. No, Arthur remembered the words he’d said when they left the farm together, with Arthur’s blood still drying in the backseat. _You scared the fuck out of me. Don’t ever do it again._

His pack was calling to him. He would not leave them in silence again.

Arthur met Gilbert’s gaze and said, “I’m here. He admitted to all of it. He’s going to—”

Gilbert seized his wrist so hard it was _painpainpain_ up his arm and the phone dropped from his hand. He was snarling now. “You just can’t ever do what you’re told, can you?”

Arthur had no time at all to respond; up came the fist and— _crack_ —against his jaw and he was on the floor, too. His teeth throbbed in his mouth and he heard, dully, Mikkel calling his name from the phone’s speaker. “Please,” he said, but it was little more than a whimper. _Please._

Gilbert took the phone, turned it off, and dropped it into the sink with the broken glass. “That was selfish of you,” he remarked as he crouched down over Arthur again. “There was no reason to draw him into this. I like Mikkel. He’s naive as hell, and he doesn’t have the first clue about wolves, but he’s not so bad. I figured he’d have better taste than this.”

He was—what was he doing? His hands were in Arthur’s jacket again. He tried to push himself away, tried to summon the strength to fight, but it was taking a lot of doing to stay conscious after that hit. He was disoriented the moment he looked away from Gilbert, but he didn’t want to look at him. _What are you doing to me?_

“Relax,” Gilbert said again. “Stop making that noise. Do you seriously think I would rape you? Or _want_ to rape you? I’m not that fucked up. And I’m not interested in killing you, either. That sounds too much like mercy. I had to live with it.” Arthur felt the blade of his butterfly knife press against his neck, the cold of metal and the hot of silver. “So should you.”

Then Gilbert cut the collar from Arthur’s neck.

Arthur pushed himself up on hands and knees, then rose fully as his body raced to heal him. The wolf leapt from cell to cell, hunting through his blood, lunging closer and closer to Arthur’s heart. _Free, free. Run! Pack?_ But there would be no running, no calling for help now. There was nothing but Gilbert facing him with that wicked blade in his hand. _Kill._

“You came and attacked me,” Gilbert told him. He kicked one of his chairs over, sent it skidding across the linoleum. “You took your own collar off and you shifted and attacked me. The stress of it all must have gotten to you. It was bound to happen. Some might say you were a ticking time bomb. They call you Bloodhound for a reason, don’t they?”

 _No._ He could win this. Mikkel was on his way. Who knew how close he was, but—Arthur just had to fight Gilbert long enough, resist the shift long enough, and then it would be his word against Gilbert’s. But they could win this. He just had to . . .

Arthur burst toward the doorway. Gilbert was closer, too fast; he grabbed him with an arm slung across his chest and lay the knife flat against his cheek. It burned, burned, he snarled and Gilbert laughed. “What big teeth you have.”

Arthur grabbed for the knife and Gilbert jerked back, so Arthur used his momentum against him and shoved him into the wall. Gilbert’s face contorted in pain, then curled into a smirk when he glanced down. Arthur followed his gaze and saw blood darkening Gilbert’s sweater; Arthur’s claws had broken his skin. He yanked his hand back, trying to calm the wolf inside him. _Stop. I can’t. Not now!_ But mere minutes ago he had longed for it, every part of him wanted to tear Gilbert to pieces, and that fire still burned. He’d taken his mother. He’d taken his mother.

Gilbert came at him again. They grappled, but Arthur had to use both hands to keep the knife at bay; if that damned silver cut him, there would be no saving him from himself. Gilbert’s other hand found his neck again, squeezing him where his collar had been. 

Fear? Not anymore.

Pain? Ha. Without a collar, pain skipped straight to fuel: anger, anger, anger.

Arthur sank his claws into Gilbert’s wrist. Bones creaked, grinded. The tables had turned. Gilbert released him immediately; the stupid two-legged wolf had forgotten what their true form could do. Arthur had words on his tongue, but they came out as a growl. His shoulders buckled; his shirt began to rip. His hands were blunt things, no longer hands. He was an itch scratched until he bled. The other one had fear in his eyes, but he was smiling. Suddenly Arthur remembered something—where was the knife?

Oh.

Pain.

He fell away, convulsing on the floor. The knife was inside him. Intruding. _GET OUT._ He tried to grab it but he wasn’t shaped for that anymore. _Leave it in._ Leave it? He knew, but he didn’t know why. Leave in the pain? _Why? Away! Run!_ He clawed at his head as his spine shuddered and bucked. _HUMAN. Please._ He had never fought it before. Oh, it hurt, hurt worse than his side. _Wolf._ There was a thing in him! Get it out! _Get out . . ._

He stood, unsteady. Hurt. He was hurt and lone—because of the man who smelled like danger.

It bared its teeth at him. Eyes like blood.

He lunged.

Where?

_Here._

Eyes open. Noises.

_Words._

Words? What were words?

_Human._

There had been a man. Arthur? He pounded the walls inside.

_Out._

Too weak, too hurt for that.

_Yes._

Silver, smell. All on his face. His mouth was shut, shut in.

_Muzzle._

Something roared, bad.

_Van._

Couldn’t stand up. Ground rolled under his paws. Hurt, too. Very bad. Everything hurt.

_Bleeding._

Yes, blood on the ground. Strange ground. Hurt. Pack?

_No._

He whimpered.

“Don’t worry, Hound.”

Tried to lift his head, couldn’t. Saw someone. A different man.

_Monster._

“The doctor has something special waiting for you.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's routine? I dunno, have another short one x3

Mikkel had to park illegally on the street because of the SUV diagonal across what remained of the driveway. He wanted to sprint in, but he kept himself steady. If he rushed in and startled Gilbert into hurting Arthur, he’d never forgive himself. He listened at the door, then slowly turned the knob and inched his way in. He adjusted his grip on his gun and peeked cautiously around the corner into the kitchen.

Gilbert was alone, wrapping bandage around his arm. He glanced over at him in surprise. “Oh, God. Give a guy a heart attack. I was just about to call you, once I finished this. Wanna give me a hand?”

Mikkel followed his gaze to the first-aid kit on the table. Slowly, he made his way over, but he didn’t put down the gun. “Where’s Arthur? What happened?”

Something like grief darkened Gilbert’s eyes and he looked down at his arms. He was spattered with blood, clothes torn, bites reddening what skin was showing. “He went crazy. I tried to stop him, Mick. He kept asking where Faye was, and he wouldn’t listen when I told him I didn’t know. He attacked me. Then, when I tried to restrain him, he cut his collar off and . . .”

He gestured to the mess of the room. Mikkel saw the butterfly knife splayed near the corner, the collar not far from it. The tags were facing him, objective and clinical without their owner attached. _KIRKLAND, ARTHUR._ They expired soon. Even when his job revolved around registration, he still worried about others before himself.

Mikkel looked back at Gilbert. It sickened him, a little, that even with the reality of Ludwig’s death certificate fresh in his mind, part of him still wanted to believe what Gilbert was telling him.

“Help me out here,” Gilbert said. “I can’t get the clip in right with this hand. And put the gun down, man, it’s alright. The coast is clear. The LCO took him to Silver Linings. I’m not gonna do anything to you.”

Mikkel looked him in the eye, but nothing changed in Gilbert’s expression. Not even a glimpse of guilt. Mikkel clipped the bandage into place with the little metal clasp, but kept his gun in hand and out of Gilbert’s reach. Arthur was en route to the Halfway House. That meant he was safe, unless—

“Did you hurt him?” Mikkel asked.

“God, not as bad as he hurt me. I cut him up a little when I got a hold of the knife, yeah.” He looked seriously up at Mikkel. “It was self-defense, Mick. You know that.”

Mikkel dropped his gaze to Gilbert’s other arm. He was scratching it again. He’d pulled the sleeve of his sweater up, and now Mikkel saw what was so itchy: an ugly red rash over his forearm and wrist, the same prickled skin Arthur’d had on his palms after he touched the wolfsbane at Yao’s mansion. _At least it doesn’t smell. I didn’t touch the roots. It’s the roots that really fuck you up._ No outward signs of suffering from either of the bodies, a possible sign of poison. And Antonio the new wolfsbane dealer, who didn’t know anyone, and Lars’s warning . . . _There are things going on in this city even I don’t know about._

Mikkel looked up again. Gilbert was watching him.

“I know the truth, Gil,” Mikkel said quietly.

Nothing really changed in Gilbert’s face this time either. It wasn’t like he ripped off a mask and there was a villain underneath. He just deflated more than anything. A different sort of regret glittered in his eyes. “I wish you didn’t,” he said, pushing to his feet and—

Mikkel stepped back and pointed the gun at him. He didn’t flick off the safety. It was already off.

Gilbert froze, eyes finally going wide. He took a moment, just a few seconds, to search Mikkel’s face for any trace of hesitation.

Mikkel stared back at him. His hands didn’t shake. He didn’t want to shoot Gilbert, but sometimes a wolf had to bare his teeth to prove his point.

Despite it all, admiration softened Gilbert’s off-red eyes. “It was a personal thing. Nothing to do with you.”

“I think,” Mikkel said, “you should show me where Faye is. Now.”

Gilbert’s humor faded, but he nodded. Mikkel stayed out of reach with the gun on Gilbert, herding him out of the house and into his car. Mikkel sat in the passenger seat of his car and watched Gilbert drive them silently to the Warren. Mikkel was surprised to realize he knew exactly where they were going, recognized the turns of the streets even in the dark. When he wasn’t in the driver’s seat, when it wasn’t him under the pressure of both making the decisions and executing them, he could think clearly. Perhaps that was where he’d always gone wrong. Two was a good number, he thought. One to plan, one to do. Good cop, bad cop. _Partners._

“Hurry up,” Mikkel said when the car dipped ten below the speed limit. The sooner he found Faye, the sooner he could get to Arthur. He had to be alright. He had to be.

“We’re here,” Gilbert replied, letting the car coast to a halt. 

The headlights lit a trailer. Mikkel didn’t turn his head to look, but he was certain they were within eyeshot of Ludwig’s trailer. Emil had been here, they’d come _that close—_

No. Not that. The next one, then the next, then the next. Judgement day would come after he’d gotten everyone else that he could out of this fire alive.

Mikkel followed Gilbert to the door. “Open it slowly,” he warned. He couldn’t imagine that Gilbert had an accomplice in all this, but nothing could surprise him today.

Inside was dark until Gilbert picked up a flashlight from a tiny fold-down table. Mikkel despised how small this dingy place was; if this came to blows, it would be too cramped to shoot anything with surety, and that was a weakness he didn’t think Gilbert would care about if the gun got into his pale hands.

Through to the bedroom. The layout was identical to Ludwig’s trailer, but this one was stripped entirely of furniture, if it had ever been furnished to begin with. The beam of the flashlight illuminated an opened pack of zipties, a box of rubber gloves, and then finally a cage beside the bed. A crate, one might call it, intended for temporary housing of a large dog or perhaps small bear. It still wasn’t comfortably big enough for its current inhabitant; Faye snarled when the light hit her, pressing her muzzled snout against the bars. She was far from the beautiful elegance that pranced among the willows. This place, or perhaps just that cage, reduced her to nothing but a frightened animal.

“I’m sorry,” Mikkel said finally, because someone had to say it.

Gilbert didn’t look away from Faye. “She knew my father. She knew about Ludwig, I think, but she never said anything. I used to think she was amazing.” The line of his mouth hardened. “But none of that matters anymore. They’re all gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Mikkel said again. “About your brother.”

He expected Gilbert to snap at him, but his shoulders slumped. “I let him down,” he said, barely audible. “I was all he had, and it wasn’t enough.”

Mikkel wanted to embrace him, suffocate him, shake him and demand recompense he couldn’t give, but he stayed where he was. “No one can ever be perfect,” he told him. “And that’s no excuse to take it out on others.”

Gilbert looked at Faye for a long, long moment. Long enough that Mikkel started thinking ahead, the hell of paperwork awaiting, the trials if Gilbert pleaded not guilty, the outcry that would surely come when the public learned of all this. A wolf killing two human kids. Marianne would have a lot of work ahead of her . . .

“Hey,” Mikkel said, because they were suddenly in darkness. “Turn it back on.”

Gilbert dropped the flashlight on the floor. Faye’s growl fell silent.

Mikkel could only see the vague shape of Gilbert in the darkness. He tensed his shoulders. “Stay back. Don’t touch her.”

The shape moved. Mikkel heard a small snap, then—the jangle of tags.

Gilbert’s collar hit the floor.

“Don’t do this,” Mikkel said. He should have known. If Gilbert had time to bandage his arm, he had time to saw through his collar with Arthur’s knife. _Stupid._ But he didn’t let his mind drop to its knees and wallow in the failure. He kept his arm steady, hoping the threat of the gun or maybe even the scent of the silver jackets inside it would sway him. “Come on. Don’t make this worse.”

Too late. Gilbert couldn’t listen, or he just wasn’t trying. Either way, Mikkel heard the rips of clothing no longer fitting a body—never quite as loud as he expected it to be—and then he was being knocked to the floor, the gun lost. In the dark, the wolf was this: the glint of eyes, the shaggy silhouette of his ruff, the rumble of his growl and the whuff of his breath over Mikkel’s throat.

Back, back Mikkel struggled, kicking at Gilbert, scrabbling and pushing himself in a nonsensical retreat. Gilbert was on him, overpowering, clamping his jaws shut on Mikkel’s arm. Oh, pain. His suit jacket meant nothing at all to those teeth, and his skin meant even less. He felt the pressure in his bones and couldn’t stop himself from crying out. Adrenaline shot through him. Escape. He couldn’t outrun a wolf, even in the few strides it would take to get to the door, to the car. He jolted back the last few inches and his shoulder struck the cage; Faye whined, high and fervent, inside.

He thought of the wolves’ deference in the willows.

It was a risk, but what else did he have?

He grabbed blindly for the latch, finally found it, jammed it free, and flung the door open.

For a moment there were two wolves snarling over him, loud deep-chested growls, and he thought he was about to be crushed beneath a whirlwind of barking, snapping jaws. It was possible he’d just given the both of them a death sentence.

Possible, as Lars had said, but not probable. The she-wolf knew Gilbert, and the wolf knew her back. Gilbert fell silent as Faye continued to growl, and the tension between them drove Gilbert back; the teeth left Mikkel’s arm—he held the wound tightly, unsure of how deep it was—and soon the growls crossed to the other side of the bedroom. Mikkel fumbled for the flashlight.

There they were. Gilbert, white and broad-shouldered and massive next to Faye, hunched in the corner, curled into himself with his tail tucked tightly between his legs and his ears laid flat. Faye stood over him, licking her bared teeth, no longer growling but showing, from her raised tail to her powerful stare, that even with a muzzle on she was not to be trifled with.

Mikkel slowly stood up, wary of disturbing this potentially delicate magic. One of Faye’s ears swiveled to him, then her head turned as well. Before Mikkel had time to feel afraid, Faye’s tail waved in what he assumed was greeting. He smiled in relief.

“Thank you,” he told her. He offered his hand to her—she sniffed at it, but in a manner that seemed more to appease him than herself—then gingerly removed the muzzle from her head. She perked up visibly at being freed from the silver, and Mikkel felt a new anger at what the wolves must feel every day wearing those collars.

They turned to Gilbert, who was still shrinking back against the wall. “Are you going to let me do this?” Mikkel asked, holding the muzzle out. He could feel blood slowly oozing from the bite on his arm, but it didn’t hurt so badly now. Still, Gilbert had earned nothing but distrust, and—yes—he could do with some punishment. He glanced at Faye. “Back me up?”

Faye looked up at him and, more at the tone than the words he suspected, cocked her head curiously. But when Mikkel moved closer to Gilbert, and the white wolf began to snarl again—Faye was on him with a _roar_ of a growl. Gilbert ducked down, eyes ringed with white, and Mikkel rushed in, sliding the muzzle on and clipping it behind his head. Faye’s volume warned him not to snap, and Gilbert listened even as he pawed fruitlessly at the muzzle.

Mikkel stepped back and took out his phone. Scott answered on the first ring. “Did you find her?”

“She’s safe,” he said, and heard several sighs on the other end. “And she’s, uh, here with the one who took her. Gilbert Beilschmidt?”

Muffled chatter. Then, “I know him. Where are you?”

Mikkel gave him the address of the trailer. “I need to go get Arthur. Can I leave them here?”

“Faye won’t be a problem. Can you close Beilschmidt behind a door or something?”

Mikkel shone the flashlight on the cage. “Yeah, I can definitely do that.”


	13. Chapter 13

When Arthur woke, he was human, lying on his back on the bed he was strapped to. He couldn’t tell if he was wearing a gown or just a sheet, but it meant nothing because he was cold. Shivering so constantly he hadn’t even realized he was doing it. He heard a faint ringing, as well, which was what told him he was in shock. How much blood had he lost? The knife wasn’t still in him, he knew that much, but was he being poisoned by the wound?

He supposed it didn’t matter much. He didn’t recognize this room, but he knew it wasn’t a hospital; this was the Halfway House. There were no heart monitors, IV tubes, emergency cords, things to keep people alive. There was only a tray with sterilized weapons, a small white box, and Dr. Bondevik himself typing away at his little desk.

Arthur tried to lift his head from the paper-covered mattress and only then realized it was braced to the bed as well. He couldn’t even feel the pressure of the band around his skull. If he could see his fingers, would they be blue?

Lukas must have heard the crackle of the paper because he said, “Right with you. I’m just filling out your form. You’re donating your body to science.” A few more taps of the keyboard and he swivelled his chair around. His eyes were frigid. “Well, officially you’re dying of your injuries. But practically, you’re volunteering. We appreciate your sacrifice.”

For half a second Arthur entertained the thought that this might be a hallucination, but Alfred would’ve been here if that were the case. He was delighted to discover that, though his lips were numb, his tongue still worked. “Are you making money off this? Is this—oh, fuck _me_ , is this what you do with the wolves Lars gives you?”

“I get paid to do my job. I am making a slight bonus for my work with Representative Vargas. I could have demanded more, I’m sure, but I am not a selfish person.” Lukas’s brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t know what you mean about Lars’s wolves, but please, don’t tell me. I really don’t care.”

Arthur watched him neatly pull on a pair of pale blue gloves. All these pieces of the puzzle, all these predators surrounding the wolves of the Warren, and they barely even knew the goings-on of each other. Eager to benefit from one another, naturally, but too greedy to work together. And perhaps that was the only good thing; if they were all some kind of syndicate, then this city really would have been in shambles.

“What work with Vargas?” Arthur asked. He tugged limply at the arm restraints. Impossible—probably laced with silver as well—but at least he’d given it the old college try.

Lukas flexed his fingers within the gloves, then turned his back on Arthur to do something important-looking with the scalpels and the whatnot.

Arthur stared furiously at his back. “Oh, don’t ignore me, you prissy little cunt. I’m being perfectly civil for a bloke on his fucking deathbed.”

Lukas sighed. “I wanted to gag you. But it’s helpful for the subject to be able to report the effects of the implant. They’re few and far between, but there are advantages to be had from your species looking like us.”

Arthur was taken aback for a good six seconds. “Alright, let’s unpack that bloody caravan. My _species_? That’s cute. Discrimination really brings out your eyes. Does Densen know you’re this disgusting? I know he’s been turning a blind eye to your ugly bits, but surely—”

Lukas glanced at him sharply, gaze like shards of ice. “Don’t talk about him. You don’t deserve him at all.”

_That is the only thing we’ll ever agree on._

“Fuck your face,” Arthur said merrily. “And what fresh hell do you think you’re going to _implant_ in me?”

Lukas shook his head a little, probably to himself. He didn’t say anything, just opened the little white box and from it took a snake. No, not a snake, but it did look like a snake: a thin, thin snake made of silver diamond-scales linked with each other. It looked like one of those necklaces in hot glass cases that cost more than a year’s car payments even before a pendant was slung onto it. It had no clasp, however. It just started, slithered out a ways, then ended. The smell of silver was so strong it wrinkled Arthur’s nose.

“Representative Vargas would like to see an end to the protests about lycan rights,” Lukas said. “Registration fees are always on their list of complaints. So we’ve proposed a collar that can never be removed and thus does not need the incentive of tag renewal. Wolves will no longer have to be trusted to keep themselves safe. They will be safe by default.”

 _This is what killed Ludwig._ Stronger shivers racked Arthur’s body as Lukas drew closer. “Get that fucking thing away from me.”

“We learn more and more with each test,” Lukas told him. His eyes were sick, all of him was sick, Arthur could hardly bear to look at him. “You would be made redundant anyway, once these new collars are implemented. So, in a way, you are still helping your kind, even in the end. I don’t expect a wolf to really understand, but hopefully that makes you feel better.”

Arthur bared his teeth at him, even as he felt how weak it made him. He was flagging. He was dying regardless; this experiment would only speed up the process. He was too tired for the fierce words he wanted to spit. His question came strung through exhale. “Why would you care if I feel better?”

“I told you.” Lukas picked up a scalpel. “I’m not a selfish person.”

And then it was just pain. The blade was silver, so nothing was healing. Everything was burning. He heard a noise and thought perhaps it was his own scream. Instinct urged _AWAY_ but there was no escaping it. It was there and it was killing him and it was there and it was killing him and it was

gone.

“Step away from him. Now. Against the wall.”

Arthur’s vision returned gradually, black speckles retreating in waves until he could see Lukas backing off, the collar and the scalpel both in his bloody gloved hands, and Mikkel stepping sideways to the bed, his pistol pointed at Lukas.

“Drop it,” Mikkel ordered in a tone that left no room for negotiation. “Both of them.”

The collar and scalpel clattered to the floor. Disappointment clouded Lukas’s face. “You’re really going to take their side? It’s dying, Mikkel.”

If Mikkel was surprised by _it_ , he didn’t let it change his expression. He was determination made human, undaunted and unfaltering. He strode over, turned Lukas around, and cuffed his hands behind his back. “You’re under arrest,” he said, “for unethical surgical experimentation.”

 _And for being an absolute bellend,_ Arthur would have added, but he was starting to get quite close to unconsciousness now. Staying awake took active effort. Every time he blinked, he had no idea how much time he lost. One second Mikkel was unbuckling the restraints—then Arthur was in his arms, watching strips of fluorescents pass by overhead.

“It’ll be okay,” Mikkel said, and Arthur saw blue eyes, brave blue eyes. “Eyes open.”

Arthur heard sirens, vaguely. Were they far away, or was he just going away? How long had they been outside? Was it dark because it was nighttime, or was it just him?

Neither. He wasn’t anything anymore.

There was only . . .

“Are you okay?”

Arthur looked. He didn’t exactly turn his head, didn’t exactly open his eyes. He knew Alfred was there, just like he always knew he was there. _There_ and _here_ were odd terms, though, because Arthur didn’t have much of an idea where he was. He thought maybe he could still hear sirens, but when he tried to focus on them they were gone.

“Don’t bother,” Alfred said, but gently. “Just rest.”

“Rest?” Arthur stared at him, incredulous. “I must be dead. You’re being nice to me.”

“ _You’re_ being nice to you,” Alfred corrected.

Arthur was quiet.

“Blimey,” Alfred said, to mildly annoy him.

It worked. “Cheek. You didn’t say if I was dead or not.”

“Mmm,” Alfred agreed, and smiled. He touched Arthur’s face. Arthur couldn’t feel it—none of this was real enough to be felt or heard or seen, only known—but the dreamy softness of it all made him maudlin. Tears welled up in his heart, but they fell from Alfred’s eyes. “Will I see you again?”

Arthur wanted to reach up and wipe the tears away, but he didn’t think that was allowed. “Why are you asking me?”

Alfred sniffled and clumsily smoothed Arthur’s hair. “Because you’re the one who needs me.”

Arthur thought about that for a long, long while.

Then he said, “No.”

Alfred pulled back. Tears froze halfway down his cheeks.

“No,” Arthur said, tenderly this time, “I don’t.”

Alfred smiled warm enough to dry the tears. Blue eyes twinkled. “Are you still tired?”

Tired? Physically, he didn’t know what he was. Between the all-nighters, the shifting and healing, the wounds and the stress, he’d probably be a while before he had anything like a sleep cycle. But mentally, emotionally . . . he knew he had a mountain of work ahead of him, but he also knew he wouldn’t be climbing alone.

Only Alfred’s whisper remained: _“Wake up.”_

Arthur woke up. He didn’t feel the groggy alienation of lapsing back into consciousness or receive the disorienting retrospective of memories played back from a lupine brain after shifting. He just woke up, like he’d been asleep, feeling slightly lethargic still, like it had been a nap. He was in a hospital bed, in a gown and under a blanket, and he was hooked up to an IV, and he was fine.

He didn’t see blood on his hands. He didn’t see Alfred’s corpse. He just saw what was in front of him.

Matthew, a bit fluffier than he remembered and dressed in a pink scrub shirt covered in puppies, smiled at him. “Welcome back.”

“Uh,” Arthur said, intelligently.

“How are you feeling?” Matthew asked, somehow soft and professional at the same time.

“Better,” Arthur said. “Good. Fine. Bit knackered. Is my mouth meant to be this dry?”

“You’re on a tranquilizer,” Matthew told him. “We didn’t want you shifting and destroying the place while we were working on you. Some wolves have a reaction to morphine. Itching, mood swings. Hallucinations. Are you experiencing anything like that?”

“Me? Nah. Right as rain.”

Matthew gave him a kind look, ever patient with his patients. “Well, you’ll be off it now that you’re awake. We’ll wean you off the painkillers too. You’re healing a lot of it yourself, which is good. The cut on your neck was a lot cleaner than the wound in your side.”

_Cheers, Bondevik, fucking lunatic._

“I’ll get you some ice to chew on for the time being,” Matthew said. “We don’t want you to choke.”

“No,” Arthur agreed, “that would be quite unfortunate. Thank you, Nurse.”

“Kirkland.” Mikkel stepped up beside Matthew, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t be mean.”

“I wouldn’t be mean, would I?” He had to work to keep the smile off his face. “Never mean. I’m so nice.”

Mikkel glanced down at Matthew. “I thought you said the tranq would be wearing off by now.”

Matthew shook his head at both of them, amused. “Unfortunately there’s no cure for Arthur Kirkland. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Away he went. Mikkel folded himself down onto a too-small chair beside Arthur’s bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Popular question. When was the last time someone asked how _you_ were feeling? Let’s start a conversation. I see you stole a tie off someone in the street—”

Mikkel smiled with half his mouth. “It’s two in the afternoon. You slept a long time after you got out of surgery.”

He could sleep for another long time, he was sure, but he didn’t say that. “What’s happening?”

“Gilbert and Lukas are both in custody; we’re still waiting for Gilbert to shift back. Lukas is trying to find the perfect defense attorney. They’re starting an inquiry into the representatives. I suspect it’ll turn into an investigation before long.” Mikkel’s gaze shadowed a little. “I’m sorry I let it get this far.”

Arthur hated that look. “It’s not your fault. This was all going on before you even got here. I should be apologizing, I’ve been here longer.”

“No, you don’t need to apologize about anything.” Mikkel started to reach for his hand, but hesitated when he saw the IV needle taped to it. “You were right about all of it.”

Arthur twined their fingers before Mikkel could pull away. “Say that again a thousand times or so. I don’t hear it very often.”

“Because it doesn’t happen very often.”

“Get the fuck out of my hospital room. You’re disrupting my—my—my convalescence.”

But he didn’t let go of his hand, and Mikkel stroked it with his thumb, smiling fully now, that wide crazy smile. “I’m not leaving you again, Teacup.”

Arthur tried to sit up, but winced back when his side throbbed at him.

“Hey,” Mikkel said, hushed and eyes wide, “easy, I’ll go if you—”

“No,” Arthur said, grabbing his silken sleeve. “I need to know before I die where the fuck you got that from.”

Mikkel looked at him, then smiled ruefully. He took out his phone, tapped something into it, then turned it so Arthur could see the screen. His eyes were a tad bleary for reading, but he managed after a moment.

_teacup (n)_

_1\. a cup from which tea is drunk, or_

_an amount held from this (~150 ml)_

_2\. any of various “toy” breeds of dog_

_measuring fewer than 17 inches_

“I really hope you realize,” Arthur said, “just how much I hate you right now.”

Mikkel laughed, that unacceptably proud laugh, and his eyes—crinkly in the corners—sparkled at Arthur. “I have a pretty good idea,” he said, and pulled the sheet up to Arthur’s chin. “But you can go into detail later. For now, just rest.”

Arthur sank into the pillow. He didn’t want to look away from those blue eyes. He couldn’t believe it was over, and they’d made it out in one piece . . . more or less. He couldn’t believe he was . . . happy . . .

Mikkel must have seen him fighting the droop of his eyelids, because he leaned over to press a kiss to his forehead, his temple, his nose. “I’ll be here when you wake up again,” he whispered. “You’re stuck with me now.”

 _Poor me_ , Arthur mouthed into his lips, and finally let himself fall.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the multiple breakings of routine here - life happens sometimes, I guess, for better and for worse. But! Thank you all so much for reading and kudosing and commenting. I know this is a super popular pairing and all, but it was still nice to see :P
> 
> Merci, mes amis!  
> xoxo

There were new pictures on the wall.

A birthday from this past spring, Arthur pretending to be grumpy beneath a party hat as he blew out his candles. The first of Marianne alone, fierce and beautiful at her keynote speech; the fundraiser had been a smashing success and would, several publications predicted, mark a solid stepping stone on the journey toward equality in their city. A large photo of the pack, at last caught in their entirety, a new white-furred face peering shyly from behind one of the willows. Mikkel hadn’t seen him in person since he joined the pack, but Scott told him the other wolves had welcomed him after a bit of hazing. _Faye’ll keep him in check._

Some might’ve seen it as a mercy, but Mikkel wasn’t so sure. Marianne, and the recently reinstated Detective Kirkland, had been vital in the passing of the most recent bill regarding lycanthropy. After seeing what had happened to Vargas—he’d gotten out of jail time, but he’d retired from politics and taken his remaining grandson back to Italy for the foreseeable future—none of them wanted to raise any fuss about wolves. And so it was decided that if a wolf could be guaranteed to never return to human form, they would be declared legally dead. Packs such as the one in the willows were deemed legal, provided their territory remained fenced-in and approved veterinarians performed monthly checkups to ensure the wolves were _acclimated to their current form._ Dylan called it overkill, but even Liam had to admit anything was better than making them wear collars.

They still had to wear them in human form, but they no longer had to pay for registration. The politicians worried how they’d make up for the tax deficit. Marianne pointed out, publicly, that ceasing the constant manufacturing of new tags, as well as the administration costs saved, would even things out quite nicely. It was an _ongoing discussion._ But it was progress.

Mikkel reached up to adjust the highest picture; he was the only one tall enough to manage it. It was his favorite, as well: Marianne had snapped it in the moment just after Mikkel had kissed Arthur on the cheek, when he was starting to blush. It drove him mad how dignified Arthur looked in his full dress, not that they ever wore that stuff outside of ceremonies. Seeing him in suits on a regular basis was treat enough, even if he did always wear his tie at a rakish angle and never bothered to trade in his scuffed combat boots for respectable shoes.

It was Berwald who’d sworn Arthur in along with a couple other new recruits. Mikkel knew it was silly now to think one big case would land him a promotion; Berwald wasn’t interested in retiring for years yet. But he knew where they stood, and that was a beautiful thing. For the first time in a long time, Mikkel felt like he had both feet on the ground. For all his brashness, Arthur made him feel much steadier.

Which was a good thing, because once Elizabeta and Antonio got out of jail and Lars got off house arrest, they might have a bit of extra trouble on their hands. Part of Mikkel found it too lenient—knowingly or not, Lars had allowed multiple wolves to go to the slaughter—but then he remembered that Lukas was one year into a ten-to-life sentence and he understood where the brunt of the punishment had landed. Ivan was locked up too, for aiding and abetting, surprising no one. Mikkel had thought more than once about visiting Lukas, just so he could see the reality of him in shapeless prison clothes, just so he could see what failure truly looked like. He hadn’t gotten up the courage for it yet. He didn’t think he was ready for self-inflicted suffering like that. Maybe he never would be. And that was okay.

But he was ready for what the world might have in store for him. They all were, their curious crew: a pack was always stronger than a lone wolf.

_Squeee-eeaak._

Mikkel stifled a smile but didn’t turn around.

_Squeeeeeee-eeaaaaaak._

Behind him, claws clacked across the floorboards.

“Hm?” Mikkel still didn’t look, but he heard the thump of a tail against the side of the couch.

Something soft pushed into his hand.

“Oh,” Mikkel said, turning and accepting the gift of the rabbit stuffie. Arthur peered up at him, ears perked, green eyes bright within his tawny face. His coat was deceptive, Mikkel had learned; he seemed a pale cream indoors or beneath the willow trees, but when sunlight hit him he was bright, the same golden sparkles that caught in the wheat blond of his hair. “Is this for me?”

Arthur heard the teasing in his voice and dropped into a play bow.

“Well,” Mikkel reasoned, beginning to tuck it under his jacket—not a suit jacket, a light spring one that now smelled sweet of straw and clover from his evenings in the barns, “maybe I’ll just keep it . . .”

Arthur’s tail froze mid-wag and his lip curled from his teeth.

Mikkel grinned and waved the stuffie over Arthur’s head. “You do have a way with words, Teacup.”

Arthur jumped up and, when Mikkel tossed it, snatched Mister Bunny from the air. He trotted proudly from the living room, on his way to the side door in the kitchen, but paused to look over his shoulder and give an inquiring squeeze. _Sque-eak?_

“Lead the way,” Mikkel said, following behind him.

When they stepped out into the light, though, they were side-by-side.

  
  


_The End._


End file.
